


London Yankee

by FourCornersHolmes



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 9/11, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cuddling & Snuggling, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gen, Hurt Mycroft, Isabel "Yankee" Angalia, Isabel's a Yankee BAMF, Life Partners, M/M, Military, Military Ranks, Military Uniforms, Moriarty is Alive, Moriarty is Dead, Mycroft finds love(?), Mycroft's An MI6 BAMF, Mycroft-centric, No Mary Morstan, Not Canon Compliant, OOC-ness, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parent!lock (Mycroft), Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Pre-Canon, Pre-Series, Romance, Secret Intelligence Service | MI6, September 11 Attacks, Sexual Content, Undercover, au-ish, daddy Mycroft, maybe? - Freeform, parenting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-23 01:50:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9635576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCornersHolmes/pseuds/FourCornersHolmes
Summary: Isabel Angalia is a girl with history. Born of a mixed-race marriage and a dual-citizen of the United Kingdom AND the United States, she's seen the world. Time in the United States Army showed her some of it, travels with family showed her some more, but her heart has always been in London even as she settles into a career as a fire-fighter in Manhattan. After the tragedy of September 11, 2001, she loses what's left of her family and strikes out for a fresh start in the city of her childhood. There, she meets a young Mycroft Holmes, who's an agent with MI6, and the rest, as they say, is history.





	1. A Meeting of Circumstance

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Not So Dull Meeting](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9295670) by [stickyrice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stickyrice/pseuds/stickyrice). 



> "With eyes wild and filled with a glee, that would have him under heavy psych evaluation before you could even say MI-6, he put the pin between his teeth, gave her a quick wink and grin before the thick spirals of smoke filled the room. The only thing to be heard was surprised shouts that were quickly silenced by their bodies hitting the floor." - This line is what inspired me! The talented stickyrice pub'd a short piece called "Not So Dull Meeting" which included the above quote and I just fell in love with the way she wrote Mycroft Holmes. After nicely asking, she gave me permission to write with that bit of inspiration, only asking that I credit and link-back to her. Well, my dear, here it is!  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *  
> Note 1:  
> One-shot for now, have plans to expand in the near future. Stay tuned!  
> -Not a one-shot anymore! 2 chapters up, and more in the works! Stay tuned, folks!  
> *  
> Note 2:  
> Did some minor editing after I did some quick math. If Isabel and Mycroft are thirty (which they would be in 2003 if they were born in 1973), then Sherlock would be 23 yo, not 19. Simple math and I got it mixed. My bad! Age fixed!  
> *  
> Note 3:  
> More editing done! Research is useful! I looked up what Isabel would carry as a side-arm with the United States Army, and given her history with Special Ops/Black Ops/Special Forces, she probably has a Colt. So, I traded her Browning for a Colt 1911A1.

* * *

***

Isabel Angalia had seen a bit of everything in five years of fighting fires, responding to heart-attacks, and the occasional odd car accident, but even the Fire Chief had to admit he’d never seen anything like this. This, currently, was the World Trade Center’s North Tower. Isabel and the boys had watched in horror on the news as a commercial passenger airliner crashed into the North Tower and were on the move before they actually saw the smoke onscreen. That had been almost half an hour ago, but it might as well have been an entire lifetime. Now Isabel climbed stairwell after stairwell, passing a steady stream of people coming down as they evacuated the upper floors. The higher she got, the harder it was to breathe easy. It wasn’t long before ashes and cinders floated down the stairwells with the evacuees. It also got hotter the higher they climbed. Nine floors below the floor struck by the first plane, Isabel did a floor-search for any stragglers. She rounded up ten on that floor and six on the next floor up. The flames were spreading rapidly in both directions, up and down, and Isabel knew that searching higher would be useless and dangerous.

Isabel knew that once they figured out who was responsible for the attacks on American soil, she’d be going back to the Army. She’d enlisted at the age of eighteen, right out of high-school, and passed boot camp with flying colours.

 

At 10:28 am, Isabel was doing another floor-search when the ceiling above her gave way. It was the start of the collapse. Her partner, Tom Ballacher, was killed instantly by falling debris. The structural integrity of the tower was badly compromised and as the cave-in brought down tons of concrete and steel, the floor beneath Isabel’s feet gave way as well. She escaped into a stairwell, which collapsed with the rest of the floor, and she fell at least three stories before her plunge was interrupted by solid ground. Isabel had enough strength do a self-check. She had landed awkwardly and rolled slowly and painfully onto her side, hindered by her equipment and trapped by concrete and steel debris. She had broken bones, bruises, a concussion for certain. Isabel got the briefest look around before losing consciousness, but there was nothing to see. If this was death, it was very peaceful. Peaceful because she couldn’t hear anything above the white-noise roar that had long ago drowned out her own laboured breathing as she climbed flight after flight of stairs.

When her world went black, Isabel Angalia didn’t expect to wake up again. It took them three hours to pull her from the wreckage, but after assuring that she wasn’t dead, they transported her to Bellevue Hospital Center and got her stabilized. It was a week before she regained consciousness, and when she did, it was to a very different world than the one she remembered from September 11.

***

After four months of hospital-stays and intense rehab, Isabel flew home to London, leaving behind her life in Manhattan once and for all. No one at Engine 1/Ladder 24 blamed her for leaving, there wasn’t anything to keep her in Manhattan with her brother and father dead. Her step-mother had died of breast cancer two years earlier, and any ties to the United States were severed as of September 11, so she packed up her life and moved over three-thousand miles away from everything she had known. After making the move to London, Isabel looked for a flat, and a job. Getting a job was easy, she found a position serving as part of an on-site security detail at Central Hall Westminster. Some searching got her a studio flat on Cleveland Street above a restaurant, but the rent was reasonable and the commute to work wasn’t awful, not to mention she got a discount on meals from the restaurant she lived above and the one directly next door. Once she had her domestics sorted, Isabel enjoyed her new chapter in London. Her life in Manhattan was behind her, never forgotten or unmourned, she’d lost friends that day, but she found it easy to move on.

 

Life settled into a rhythm and a predictable routine in London, Isabel made friends, went on a few dates, and adopted a stray cat she kept finding at her door. Things got _very_ interesting about two years after she had started working for the private security firm that contracted her employment at Central Hall Westminster when she was assigned to stand in on a meeting between various heads of state in the government. She groaned at the thought of standing for _hours_ against a wall while a bunch of stuffy old men bickered back and forth about things like budget and mundane matters of state. She was a patroller, pacing the halls and seeing to anything a passer-by needed. But she woke at her dictated hour, it was an early meeting, showered, dressed in her uniform, and made sure Aristo was fed and content to be left to his own devices for the day.

“My bed is not a scratching post, and if I find you’ve ruined another pillow, out you go.” She scolded fondly, throwing him into said pillows as she headed for the door, “Be good, Aristo. Be back tonight.” All she got was a scolding “mow!” as he popped out of the covers. Getting to the venue, she clocked in and soon found herself standing against the wall by the door of the Donald English Meeting Room, greeting the delegates as they entered. As she had dreaded, most of them were codgy old men who gave her a nasty side-eye when they saw the colour of her skin. There were a few women, as well, but none of them looked at her favourably. For God’s sake, were they stuck in the Middle Ages?

“Racism never dies.” She muttered softly, turning her head to greet the next delegate. They had come in twos and threes, chatting in low, business-like tones, but this one came in alone, and the first thing she noticed was his age. Every delegate thus far to enter the room had been well into their seventies and eighties, the youngest would have been in his mid-sixties at her best guess, but _this_ one was very young. She wouldn’t have put him at thirty yet. And he wasn’t the typical delegate, either. Most of them were Parliamentarians, but he seemed more an agent. MI5 or MI6, she wasn’t absolutely certain, but he didn’t act like the others. His gaze was sharp, his expression severe, but when she greeted him with the same quiet politeness she had given the others, that changed for a moment.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning.” He glanced at her briefly, as the others had done, and paused. Just for a moment. She saw his eyes rake over her and she felt like he was taking her apart. She avoided eye-contact, but not looking at him, and saw an eyebrow go up a bit. Isabel noticed when he sat at the corner of the table adjacent to her post by the door and angled his seat in such a way. Interesting. She sighed and resettled herself as the meeting got underway, all the while splitting her focus between the young delegate, whose eye-colour mystified her completely, and the situation.

These kinds of meetings could drone on for _hours_ , and this one certainly did. But it wasn’t all bad, the young red-headed delegate seemed interested in playing a subtle game with her. It took her fifteen minutes to figure out what he was doing when his fingers kept twitching. Field-signals? Yes, a few carefully-chosen field-signals. And British Sign Language, against his left leg out of sight of anyone at the table but clear to her sight. Oh, she was _right_! He _wasn’t_ a Parliamentarian! He was an agent for sure! She stifled a chuckle and answered the question he kept asking her.

**_“What is your name?”_ **

**_“I’m Isabel Angalia. You’re no Parliamentarian.”_ **

**_“Observant girl. No, I’m not.”_** She saw the smirk on his face, quickly smoothed away.

“Do you find something _amusing_ , Mr Holmes?” One of the elders snapped irritably. Isabel snorted quietly. Holmes? A nice name, very dignified and proper. An _old_ name.

“No, Mr Bolinger.” The young Mr Holmes said calmly, “It was a passing thought, Your Honor.”

“Do pay attention, Holmes, we don’t pay you to dawdle!” Harry Bolinger hissed before resuming his ramble.

“No, you don’t.” Holmes murmured under his breath. “But I could do your job and everyone else's far more efficiently. But no.” Ooh, a little animosity. Isabel snickered.

**_“So, Mr Holmes. Do you have a first name?”_ **

**_“I do not divulge my first name on a first date by principle.”_ **

_**“Oh, a date!”** _ She was absolutely certain that had been a slip. He didn’t seem much like the dating _type_ , going by his looks and the job he apparently did. Not that he was unattractive, he really wasn’t. The nasty look he shot her had her shaking with stifled laughter.

 

At a break in the action, she escaped the room. Getting out, she headed for the green-space across Storey’s Gate. Sitting on the retaining wall with her eye on the venue, she kicked her heels and rummaged in her pockets for a cigarette. All she had was an empty pack, and she chucked it into a bin with a grumble. After the morning she’d had, she _desperately_ needed a cigarette. And lunch. Lunch would be fantastic.

“That’s a desperately long face, Miss Angalia.” Oh, she recognized _that_ voice. It didn’t keep her from startling, and she shot him a dirty look.

“Don’t sneak up on people, Mr Holmes!” She snapped, “What are you doing out here?”

“I assume the same thing you are, my dear.” He grinned.

“And that would be…?”

“Escaping.” He leaned against the wall next to her perch, “I take it you’re not fond of that crowd?” Said with a broad, slightly dismissive gesture in the direction of the venue.

“Nope.” She shrugged, “Can’t do much about it, though. It’s the job.”

“Contracted security. A new profession for you, you were…a firefighter in Manhattan until two years ago. You left Manhattan after some tragedy and came to London. Why?”

“If you missed the Arabs blowing a hole in the skyline when they took out the World Trade Center, Mr Holmes, you’re not doing your job.”

“Oh, I remember. You were one of them, after all, the first of the First Responders on-scene.” He tapped his chin, “You turned your back on everything and came here to start over after. No family, no friends, little money to be had, and you make your way guarding cackling Parliamentarians.”

“It pays. No one here knows me, no one cares, I like it that way. I do have family here, just not any I’ve spoken to or bothered with in a long while.” She drummed her fingertips together, “But you’re not a nobody. You’re not a Parliamentarian, you’re an agent. Doing administrative dredge. Interesting choice, not yours, I take it?”

“Nope.”

“Hmm. Pity. You’d be a damn good field-agent.” She smirked, taking note of the side-arm hidden beneath his suit-jacket, “Smart enough to arm yourself, so this isn’t your normal job.”

“You and I are doing the same job, Miss Angalia.” He produced a silver cigarette case from a pocket and clicked it open, extracting two of the precious contents before he closed it and returned it to his pocket. He offered one to Isabel, who wasn’t idiot enough to refuse, and offered his lighter as well. “Well, nearly the same job.”

“Bollocks. You’re an agent, I’m a hired hack. Probably should have gone back to the Army, but I slipped out of that one somehow.”

“Did you mean to?”

“No, it just…kind of happened.” She blew a stream of smoke at the overcast sky, “What about you, then?”

“Hmm?”

“Any family? Significant others?”

“Family, yes. Significant others…” He trailed off with a reluctant hiss. She smiled.

“Not your area, then.”

“No. Not with the kind of work I do, it never seems to work out.”

“Pity.” She looked at the pedestrians passing by them, “Well, at least you’ve got some family.”

“Parents and a pest of a little brother.”

“How much younger?”

“Seven years. Barely out of university, the clod. Bad choices on every front, I can’t seem to straighten him out.”

“I envy you for that.” She sighed, “My brother and father both died in 2001, my step-mother three years before. I had nothing when I left Manhattan, I have nothing now. A few scrappy dates to record, but nothing I’d give a second thought to.”

“Pity.” He narrowed his eyes, “You have an interesting name.”

“What’s interesting about Isabel Angalia?”

“Much.” he eyed her up, “You’re different.”

“Boring?”

“No.” He tapped ash off the end of his cigarette. It was quiet for another five minutes before they put out the dog-ends of their cigarettes. She brushed her hands off and hopped down from her perch. A hand on her elbow startled her, but it was only Mr Holmes, who didn’t ask. She smiled.

“Thank you.”

“Pleasure. Lunch?”

“Oh, god, please.”

“This way.” He led the way up from the venue to Westminster Arms-Shepherd Neame, where they managed to find a small table amid the lunch-rush. Having never seen or met him before, Isabel was surprised how quickly she was easy with Holmes, and by the end of lunch, she’d dragged his name out of him.

“Wait a minute. Wait.” She held up one hand to stop him, giggling, “Your parents thought it was a good idea to name their sons Mycroft Alexander Henry Holmes and…William Sherlock Scott Holmes?”

“Apparently.”

“Well, I like it. It suits you.” She smiled over her glass at him, “What’s your brother think of it?”

“He goes by Sherlock these days, has for years. Talking sense into him is…difficult on a good day. He’s very erratic. I do worry about him.”

“You said he had bad habits?”

“Very.” Mycroft sighed, rubbing the rim of his glass with a reluctant fingertip, “He’s a junkie. An addict.”

“Oh, that’s rough.” Isabel had taken her share of calls responding to overdoses. “I always hated those calls, it always hurt to see them that way.”

“Were you a medic, then, as well?”

“Yeah, I was. I liked my job.”

“Then why didn’t you look for like employment here?”

“I thought I would try something different.” She shrugged and finished her iced tea, “Thank you for lunch, Mr Holmes.”

“Please call me Mycroft.”

“Oh. Sure.” She smiled. He paid the bill and they headed back to Central Hall. The walk back was lively and they talked more about a little of everything. When they returned to the meeting room, she took up her post near Mycroft’s seat and leaned against the wall, keeping an eye on things and ready for anything that might come up. This was an all-day meeting, and there were more breaks to stretch and take small-group conversation. Dinner was catered, and Isabel knew it was not usually in line for support staff to eat when the delegates were served, but trust Mycroft to look out for her. She was standing at her post when he returned with two plates. There were seats set along the wall, she had taken one to sit during the proceedings when she felt like getting off her feet for a bit.

“Miss Angalia.”

“Mr Holmes.” She smiled as he passed her by, “You’re not going to eat all of that, are you?”

“No. One of these is for you. Come and sit down.” He set the plates down and took his seat, motioning to the empty place beside him. Isabel looked around the room, which was rather empty as most of the delegates had decided to take their meal in the catering room next door. Those who were in the meeting room didn’t pay her much heed, so she didn’t care if they saw her sit down next to Mycroft.

“Thanks.” She whispered as they set into their plates, “You didn’t have to think about someone like me. Usually, support-staff doesn’t eat with the delegates.”

“I don’t much care for procedures of that sort.” He shook his head dismissively, “It makes no sense to treat those protecting us as less-than simply because they are doing a job we couldn’t lower ourselves to bother with.”

“Says the government agent.” She snickered, “So, you never did tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“MI6 or MI5?” She looked sideways at him and saw a smirk curve his lips.

“Oh, my dear, I would hate to have to kill you.”

“I’m asking _what_ you do, I just want to know which organization owns the smartest man I’ve ever met.” She shrugged, “And yes, I just said that out loud, no, I am not sorry and I will not take it back.”

“What makes me the smartest person you’ve ever met?”

“The way you act. Most smart men are so busy _bragging_ about it, you get sick of it before you know anything useful. But the truly intelligent ones are quiet. They watch, they observe, they…study. You don’t say much, but when you do, people tend to listen. Now, there’s listening, and then there’s _listening_.” She popped a piece of bread into her mouth, “So?”

“MI6.”

“Called it! Minute I laid eyes on you, son.” Isabel took a sip of water, “Then what in God’s name are you doing _here_? Why are you pandering to a bunch of grouchy Parliamentarians who don’t seem to have much respect for either of us?”

“Because I was asked to.” He looked around the room, “My bosses were interested in a rumour and set me out to keep an eye on things.”

“Like an attack?” Isabel whispered, feeling a familiar sting in her gut. That would explain a lot. And why she had been so restless since just after noon. “A terrorist attack?” His eyes hardened and narrowed, and she saw a stiffening of his frame.

“Look, I don’t know if you’ve forgotten already, but I was there on 11 September 2001. I was a First Responder, I was among the first on-scene.” She murmured, tapping the back of his hand, “I know the look and feel of one. I’m not an idiot, Mr Holmes.”

“I never said you were.”

“And you were about to shut me out. Don’t _do_ that.” She looked at him, “I’m here to protect a bunch of ungrateful Parliamentarians who look at me like I’m not even worthy to be in this room just because of the colour of my skin. But I don’t judge them for that. If I can help you, then I will.”

“I suppose it might be useful. After all, you have a higher clearance than anyone else here.” He set his fork down on an empty plate and picked up the filled water-glass, “But you are unarmed. Your incapacitant spray and TAZER are only so effective and both are close-range weapons.”

“Those are the weapons I wear on my duty-belt.” She stacked their plates and went to put them on a serving tray set near the door, “If you’re aware of my security-clearance, then you know what kind of weapons I’m cleared to use and carry.” He only raised an eyebrow in silent question as she returned to the table, and she turned her back on him, raising the hem of her black duty-jacket enough to give him a glimpse of the Colt M1911A1 tucked into a conceal-carry holster on the inside of her waistband. “Even on a contract job looking after a few cranky Parliamentarians.”

“Oh, you’re a sneaky one, Miss Angalia.” She heard a hitch in his voice and had to catch her own breath when his fingers brushed against the grip of her service-pistol. “This is your Army pistol. You kept it.”

“Damn straight I kept it. Shoots straight as a dream, and I like the weight of it.” She looked over her shoulder, “I take it you approve?”

“Oh, yes. I can count on you?”

“If it gets to hot action, I’m all yours.” She murmured, dropping her jacket over the holster again and found herself wondering, just for _one_ split second, what it would feel like if there were no clothes between them. They had touched hands many, many times, but that was different. The quick, business-like, innocent touches and close quarters made her skin tingle. She was doomed. No one else she dated after this would come anywhere _close_ to the mysterious, intelligent Mycroft Holmes. And she was way, _way_ out of his league, so dreaming would have to suffice. They ran in different circles, associated with different people, and despite having similar job-descriptions, did completely different jobs. She knew that little exchange hadn’t been noticed, but she leaned over his seat anyway, “No one saw that, did they?”

“I do not believe they did.”

“Fine. I don’t need you getting heat for associating with the hired help.” She adjusted her radio and listened to different check-ins. It was quiet, as it should be. But the fine hairs on the nape of her neck stood on end and she was on high-alert. The quiet would not last, an attack was coming. When the meeting resumed, she stood at her post and waited. Because she was aware, because she was on alert, the attack, when it came, did not take her by surprise. She was already on the move, and by the time the room erupted, she had Mycroft out of his seat and under the table. Thinking quickly and on their feet, they overturned the tables and provided a barrier between themselves and the assailants. Isabel called it in over her radio, hoping someone else on the outside could get word to the right authorities. They needed help. Badly. Spotting a nearby fallen assailant still loaded with his weapons, Isabel had an idea. She tapped Mycroft on the shoulder, “I’m going out! Cover me!”

“What?!”

“Cover me!” She snapped, checking for clear.

“Isabel!” He yelled, popping his head over the tables to cover for her so she wouldn’t get shot. Grabbing the assailant by the strap of his vest, she dragged him back to cover and they stripped the man of his weapons. A rifle, which she took, two pistols, and a belt of gas-grenades. Several of the delegates had taken cover behind the tables, Mycroft ordered them to overturn the other table and move it to provide better cover.

“Just like Kuwait!” Isabel huffed, shooting from her perch before she scrambled to another location when Mycroft tapped her sharply on the shoulder in a familiar move-forward signal. He stayed behind, covering that angle, leaving her to sweep the rest of their little refuge. She picked off a few more assailants, had a few near-misses, and wondered when help would come. It wasn’t that she didn’t _think_ she could take on these morons with Mycroft, but back-up would sure be nice.

_“This is Angalia! We’re trapped in the Donald English Meeting Room! We’ve been pinned down by hostiles!”_ She yelled over her radio, _“If there’s ANYONE out there, get your asses to Donald English RIGHT NOW! We have a problem!”_

_“ How many are there, Angalia?”_

_“Shit, I don’t know! I think there were six!”_ She looked across at Mycroft, got his attention with a sharp whistle and signed to him when he turned to her.

**“ _Did you get a head-count of the hostiles before we jumped?”_**

**_“There were six.”_ **

_**“Thought so! Fantastic! How many are there left?”**_ She popped her head up over the barrier of the tables, fired off a few shots, and counted how many returns she got. There had been six, she counted at least three unique return-fire sequences.

_“Copy, Base. There’s three assailants left! No count of casualties on our end or theirs!”_ She grabbed a smoke-grenade and threw it, unopened, to Mycroft when he asked for one. He caught it in one hand and did the most idiotically brave thing she’d ever seen someone do, and she had seen a _lot_ of idiot heroics in the Army. With eyes wild and filled with a glee that would have him under heavy psych evaluation before you could even say MI6, he put the pin between his teeth, gave her a quick wink and grin before the thick spirals of smoke filled the room as he tossed it over the table. The only thing to be heard was surprised shouts that were quickly silenced by their bodies hitting the floor. She found an intact bottle of water and managed to get her undershirt off, using a belt-knife she had stolen from the assailant they had weapon-stripped to cut it into strips for masks. Dousing one makeshift mask with water, she tied it around her nose and mouth. She did the same with the other mask and quickly tied it around Mycroft’s nose and mouth without bothering to ask if he minded. There was coughing and groaning and she watched him disappear over the tables. Eyes burning, she went after him to make sure he didn’t do anything stupid. Together, they picked off the rest of the assailants. Grabbing him by the shoulder, she lost her footing and tumbled headfirst out the door, pulling him with her. They landed in a tangled heap in the hallway, disorientated by the smoke billowing out of the meeting room and the flashing emergency lights. Wailing sirens alerted them to incoming assistance, and she was pulled free of the doorway and propped against the far wall by Mycroft, who slumped beside her, coughing.

“Smart…with the…masks.” He rumbled.

“Thanks.” She leaned her head back, her chest aching as she coughed. After a bit, they managed to get to their feet and left the building. They were met outside by ambulances and a hefty police presence. A young plain-clothes sergeant ushered them away to an ambulance.

“You two alright, there?” He asked as Isabel carried more of Mycroft’s weight than was strictly necessary. Isabel nodded. She didn’t feel much like talking. At the ambulance, they were treated for smoke-inhalation with wet towels, oxygen, and saline eye-drops, but one of the medics got smacked away when an attempt was made to stitch up a wound above Mycroft’s left eye.

“Mycroft, don’t be an arse.” The helpful sergeant scolded from where he stood watch, “They’re just doing their jobs.”

“And I know six people who could it better, Gregory. No!” Mycroft snapped, voice hoarse and gravelly from the smoke.

“It’ll leave a scar if you don’t do something about it, sir.”

“Don’t even think about it.” He snarled. Isabel was feeling much better and decided to intervene.

“Mycroft. Let them help you. Let _someone_ help you.” She said quietly, “At least let them clean the wound.” He turned on her so quickly it made her a little dizzy on his behalf.

“No.”

“Oh for god’s sake.” She rubbed her forehead. “Mycroft Holmes! That’s enough from you!” She snapped, getting up on her feet so she stood over him, “You can stop being a hero now, you need attention. Now shut up and let me help!”

“Weren’t you a field-medic in the Army?” He leaned his head back and looked up at her, eyes wide and glassy.

“Yes, actually. I was. Is that what you were doing during the meeting when you should have been paying attention to Bolinger?” She folded her arms across her chest and looked down at him, a little unsteady on her feet but not incapacitated.

“Can you blame me for looking up your records?”

“You sneaky bastard.” Isabel huffed, “Damn idiot, you are.” Shaking her head she looked at the medics who stood by waiting for a chance to help. “All I need is a suture kit, a gauze, and bandaging.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The lead medic looked her over, “Credentials?”

“Captain Isabel Angalia, United States Army.” She flashed her military identification card, which she _always_ carried, “I’ll take responsibility for Mr Holmes’s medical care.” The smirk on Mycroft’s face was a little unexpected, but she supposed he might have expected her to pull rank eventually.

“On your head, then.” The lead medic handed over several pairs of gloves and two suture kits after making note of things, the lot of which she shoved into a pocket as she took Mycroft by the hand after she covered the wound. “You’re mad. Both of ya.”

“Aren’t we all? Thank you, gentlemen, we’ll leave you to take those who are in more need of your services than us.” Isabel flashed them a rather troubling smile and hopped out of the ambulance, offering her hand to Mycroft, “Let’s get you out of here.”

“I can’t talk either of you into a hospital-visit, can I?” The police sergeant watched, arms folded across his chest, a grim expression on his face, “Why did I just _know_ you were involved with this, Mycroft? Really?”

“My apologies, Gregory.” Mycroft smiled at the sergeant, a friendly, soft smile Isabel hadn’t seen yet, “But you know my job isn’t all that much safer than yours.”

“I’m not the one disappearing for weeks at a time on missions I can’t talk about, though.”

“Bah. Anyway, I owe you an introduction.” Mycroft turned to Isabel, “Gregory Lestrade, please meet Isabel Angalia. She was a tremendous help tonight, and rather good company in light of things.” He smiled and squeezed her hand, “Isabel, this lout is Gregory Lestrade, one of The Met’s finest. Rather good at his job, not so good at keeping an eye on my little brother.”

“That’s not my job, Mycroft! I do what I can, the bastard’s a little eel when he wants to be! Haven’t seen him in weeks.”

“Well, thank you for your efforts. And yours, Isabel.”

“Just doing my job, Mr Holmes.” She looked around, “We need to get out of here. Getting a cab at this time of night is going to be damn near impossible.”

“Forget that, I’ll take you home.” Lestrade looked over his shoulder, “I’ve got a car. Come on, then, if you’re cleared to leave?”

“I would rather go home now, I think. Thank you, Gregory.”

“Alright then, this way.” He led them towards the line of police vehicles and held the door of a marked car for them.

“Yours or mine?” Mycroft asked once they were underway. Isabel sighed and leaned her head against the cold window, watching the lights of the city blur past.

“Christ, I don’t know. Where do you live?”

“Grosvenor Road.”

“You’re closer. I live up in Fitzrovia.” She closed her eyes, “What a hell of a day that was.”

“You’ve seen similar or worse in the Army.”

“Of course I have, but you never expect to see it domestically.” Isabel sighed, “This was a hack-job by a couple of wannabe's. I’ve seen what happens when someone gets it into their heads that they can do serious damage.”

“Manhattan.” Mycroft nodded, “Bless you for surviving that.”

“Four months in recovery, and nothing to stay for.” She sighed, “I thought about going back to the Army, but I figured I could be useful somewhere else. Not to mention I wasn’t exactly fit for duty anyway.”

“Wait, what?” Lestrade looked over his shoulder, “You’re a Manhattanite?”

“Formerly.” She pushed away from the window, “I haven’t lived there or worked there in two years, and I have no intentions of going back soon. Nothing there.”

“Sure could have fooled me, with _that_ accent. Thought you might be local. What did you do?”

“I was a firefighter. And a field-medic with the Army before that. Skipped university and went straight in after I graduated from high-school.”

“Jesus.” Lestrade whistled low, “You didn’t have anything to do with that mess two years ago, did you?”

“Yes, sir, I did. I think it goes without saying _why_ I was unfit for service at the time I was discharged from the hospital.”

“Good God.”

“Hmm. No family, no prospects, so out I came. London seemed a reasonable place to start over, I already had residency here thanks to my mother, employment and housing came in due time.”

“That takes guts, ma'am.”

“So does getting out of bed in the morning.” She folded her arms across her chest, “I still can’t walk into a skyscraper without panicking, heights scare me, and I had to take prescription-strength sleeping pills just to get through the international flight.”

“You don’t have a therapist, do you?”

“Nope, and I am _not_ interested. The therapist I ditched in Manhattan was useless. You’d think someone living in a city that had just gotten a big hole blown in its skyline would understand if there were things I didn’t want to talk about or just plain _couldn’t_ , but no.”

“I am sorry you were treated so poorly by someone in a position of trust, Isabel.” Mycroft’s voice was unusually soft, still roughened by the night’s ordeal. “Gregory?”

“Yeah?”

“Fitzrovia, please.”

“You got it, boss.” Lestrade glanced at Isabel, “Where are we going?”

“82 Cleveland Street. I hope you’re not allergic to cats.” She said this to Mycroft.

“No? I don’t believe I am.”

“Okay, _good_.” She sighed, “You’re not going to believe this, but the last moron I made the mistake of dating forgot to tell me he was allergic to cats. Deathly allergic to cats. I shipped his sorry ass off to the hospital five minutes after meeting him and never looked back. Never called, never cared. You get my cat or you get the door.”

“You strike me as a cat-person. I’m not sure why.” Mycroft chuckled, “I do not mind cats, and I am certainly not allergic to them. I prefer dogs, but I have no issue with cats at all. I cannot promise your cat will like _me_ , but that is a different problem.”

“I don’t bring many people back to the flat, but he’s pretty friendly.” She smirked, “I can’t wait to see what Aristo thinks of you, Mr Holmes.” She wiped at her face with her sleeve and made a face, “God, I need a shower.”

“After the day you’ve had? I imagine you might want one.” Lestrade chuckled, “Stupid thing you did tonight, but damn brave. And it _worked_ , worst of all.”

“They were stupid.” Mycroft sighed, “No idea who they were working for, I imagine we might be able to get answers if any of them survived.”

“Worry about that later. You two need to get cleaned up and get some rest.” Lestrade shook his head and it was quiet the rest of the drive up to Fitzrovia. When they reached her Cleveland Street flat, she thanked Lestrade for giving her a ride home and held the door for Mycroft. As she fought the door open, Lestrade’s car continued on its way and she finally let Mycroft into the house, leading him upstairs to her third-floor flat. She closed the door once they were in and looked around.

“Aristo, I’m home!” She undid her duty-belt and jacket, hanging both once she got the lights up and looked around, “Yeah, it’s not much, but it’s home enough.”

“It is home enough.” Mycroft looked around as he shed his overcoat and jacket, “I have seen smaller.”

“We both have.” She sighed, “Where is that stupid cat? If he got out again, he’s staying there.” She dropped to her knees and peeked under the bed, “Oh, never mind. _There_ you are, you pest! Well, come on out with you, Aristo, and meet someone.” She reached out and grabbed him. He wasn’t fighting, so she’d caught him resting. Sliding him across the floor until she could lift him into her arms, she tossed him onto the bed and got to her feet, “Ugh. Ow! Shower for certain, everything hurts.”

“Aristo is a purebred.”

“Yeah. He probably belonged to an American family before he lived on the streets, you don’t see many Maine Coons around these parts.” She turned from digging up pyjamas and found Mycroft sitting on her bed, petting Aristo, “Ah. I guess he likes you, then. He doesn’t usually let strangers get that close.”

“Oh, no, he came right up to me.” Mycroft smiled and scratched Aristo behind the ears, “He’s a delightful thing.”

“You sneaky little punk. Alright, you two keep each other company, I’m gonna get cleaned up. I smell like smoke-grenades and sweat.” Waving off the pair, she ducked into her tiny bathroom and stripped as she turned the water on. She tossed her clothes out into the hallway and tested the water temperature. It was perfect, so she stepped into the shower-tub and took a quick, efficient shower. She wanted to save enough hot water for Mycroft so that he could take a shower, so she finished up quickly and dried off after stepping out. As she pulled her station tee-shirt over her head, she heard the door close. Curious, and thinking if Mycroft had left he would have said something, she poked her head out of the bathroom, “Uh, Mycroft?”

“Yes?”

“Oh, you’re still here.” She sighed, “Good. I thought you’d left.” She stepped out, drying her hair with a towel, “What was that for?”

“I texted my driver on our way here to bring me my things.” He was looking at something on his phone, “Can I use your laptop?”

“Er. Sure, I guess? What for?”

“You have military-grade protection, and I have reports to read. I’d rather not read them on my phone. Do you mind?”

“Oh, uh. No.” She tossed the towel over the clothesline that hung across the wall facing the street, “I’ll get it booted up for you, you can get cleaned up and I’ll see to that cut on your forehead. I will tie you to a chair if I have to, now scram.” She handed him a clean towel and pointed him towards the bathroom, “No arguing with me. I’ll make tea.” Mycroft, who didn’t seem like the kind of man who took orders too well, just smirked and ducked into the bathroom with the towel and an overnight bag. While he was taking a shower, she booted up her laptop, opened her secure browser, and set about making tea. She set the laptop on her small table and went to collect the pile of dirty clothes she had dumped outside the bathroom door and which had been moved. A small mesh laundry bag containing her clothes and Mycroft’s sat by the door and as she studied it, a sharp, brisk knock startled her. Every scrap of clothing she had worn that day was in the bag, and as the knock came a second time, she peeked through the peephole. An aide stood outside, obviously waiting for something, and she carefully opened the door so Aristo wouldn’t get out.

“Can I help you?”

“The bag.”

“This one?” She picked up the laundry bag. The aide nodded, one hand out.

“I’m to collect it for dry-cleaning.”

“All yours then.” She shrugged and handed it over. “Would I be wrong if I thought you didn’t have someone sitting on this flat right now?”

“Two.”

“Figures. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of your boss.” She didn’t know why she said that, but there it was. The aide just shrugged and disappeared again with the bag in hand. She closed the door, locked it against anyone else coming in, and ran to the window, looking out over the street. She saw a black sedan pull away and looked for the watchers. There was a car parked behind the sedan that didn’t leave. She nodded and set the tea to steep, picking a loose-leaf sleepy-time blend, pulling milk and cream from her mini-fridge and setting out the sugar.

When Mycroft emerged a few minutes later, clad in pyjama bottoms and a white tee-shirt, she was laying on her bed, enjoying a badly needed cigarette, listening to a recording of The Phantom of the Opera. She was a fan of musicals, well, the _good_ musicals anyway, and The Phantom was her absolute favourite. She had actually acted in her high school’s presentation of the musical in her junior year as Christine. Oh had there been some troubles there, with traditionalists who thought Christine should only be played by skinny, young, petite pretty white girls. Not tall, athletic girls of colour who could hold their own on stage, thanks much.

Isabel didn’t realize how far into her own head she’d gotten until she was aware of a hand on hers, pulling her out of her music. It was Mycroft, with tea. She sat up and took it from him, pushing her headphones to sit around her neck.

“Thanks. Christ, I’m sorry.”

“That’s alright. The Phantom of the Opera?”

“Yeah. Was I singing again?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry.” She took a sip of hot tea, “God, what a night it was. Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Making my job not as boring.” She smirked, eyeing the wound above his eye, “That needs looking after.”

“Stitches?”

“Maybe. It’s pretty deep.” She handed him a gauze pad, “Just use that for now.” The wound wasn’t bleeding as much, but she still wanted to stitch it up, knowing it would heal much more cleanly if she did that. After they had emptied their cups, Mycroft took them to her tiny sink, rinsed them, and set them out to dry while she broke open one of the two suture-kits. He sat down at the table to read whatever reports he had received, so she decided to do the deed while he was still and focused. She set the little tray on the table next to the laptop and got a good idea for how deep the wound was and how many stitches it would take.

“Can you do it from that angle?”

“You’d be surprised. Between being a part-time EMT at Engine 1/Ladder 24 and a field-medic, you learn how to be creative about things.” She smirked, “Try to keep your head still if you can. The less you move, the easier it is for me.” She applied a numbing agent and waited five minutes before she started the hard work. To his credit, Mycroft never complained, but she didn’t miss the soft sounds of distress. She leaned over him, her angle comfortable and functional, and wondered what it said about her that, after knocking down a badly-executed assault by unknowns, she had brought home a stranger she had met during said disturbance and currently sat in her tiny studio flat stitching up a flesh-wound while he read what equated to top-secret reports on her laptop. It seemed like such an outlandish thing, and yet…so _normal_! Like this was something that happened all the time, not just once in every blue moon. Or at all, until tonight. A small ceramic bowl she had made ages ago as a child served as an ashtray, as both she and Mycroft were smoking while this was all happening. He had a glass of water before him as well, taking occasional sips from it. She hummed under her breath as she worked, Sam Cooke’s “You Send Me”. Finishing her work, she tied off and clipped the sutures, covering the lot with a plaster after applying a triple-antibiotic cream to it. Then she cleaned up and set about her nightly ablutions. When she came out, Mycroft was standing by the open window, looking out into the night, and there was no sign of Aristo.

“Aristo asked to go out?”

“Yes, he did.”

“He knows.” She chuckled, “Loo’s all yours if you want it.” She smiled and shut down the main lights as he passed her by. She would leave the window open for fresh air. She found the bed turned down already and everything set for the night. There was something under her pillow, and she reached under to get an idea of it. As soon as she touched the smooth, cool tube, she knew. “I know I put that away after last time. Cheeky prat.” Leaving the lube where it was, she moved her fingers a fraction to the right and felt the foil packet under the other pillow. Prepared for everything, he was. Did that mean she wasn’t the only one hoping for more? Interesting. If that was true, she wondered if she would take the lead, or if he would. His experiences were very different from hers, she suspected, she might have more under the belt than he did. When he came out again, she had her face to the window, her eyes closed, but she wasn’t asleep. She stayed still and let him get comfortable, stifling a smile. After a while, she felt him roll onto his stomach and push up on his elbows, resting against her back.

“I _know_ you’re not asleep, Captain.”

“I wasn’t pretending to be, Mr Holmes.” She smiled and turned her head, “I was waiting.”

“For what, exactly?”

“Mm. Not sure. Sleep, if that’s all I get. Something more, if that’s in the cards. I do not push.”

“And yet you can pull anyone you wish.”

“If I feel like it, yes I can.” She shrugged, “Usually it doesn’t take much, just a look, a word, a touch.”

“You have never been married, never been engaged, any relationships are short-lived.”

“My choice. Always my choice. I’m picky. I like my guys to have a bit more intelligence than the typical trawler. I played around with a few guys in the Army, but we never got serious.”

“Interesting.” He chuckled, a soft puff of breath against her ear, “You’re attracted to danger, of course, intelligence. I hate to say that your focus on physical appearance is lacking, but you don’t seem to mind that.”

“Oh, I do mind.” She rolled onto her back and looked up at him, “You followed me home, Mr Holmes. You told your friend Lestrade to bring you back to this dingy little place, why?”

“Why _not_?”

“You’re unbelievable. We’ll see each other after this, I guarantee it. Somehow, somewhere in London, you and I will meet again. This is not a one-night stand.”

“Was it a date?”

“Probably the most fun I’ve had on a date in months. Workplace romances rarely work, but I don’t work for MI6, I’m not interested in working for them, and it’s unlikely you’re coming back to Central Hall any time in the next few weeks. Hell, I’m out of a job until they work out that mess. I’ll get assigned somewhere else, probably.”

“Where?”

“No clue. They send us wherever a client needs a presence.” She tipped her head to the side and looked at him.

“Parsons-Vintera Security Management will not leave you without work. It is not their policy.”

“I have to take your word on that. I’ve been working the same contract for two years.” Isabel sighed and gave in to the need to touch. “We’ll see. The contract with Central Hall Westminster was almost out anyway, I think we had maybe a week to go before it was paid out. If they were going to renew it, I wasn’t on the team being deployed. I’ll see where they send me, I’ll probably have the next week off while they work out specifics.”

“What will you do with your time off?”

“Find a bigger place to live, for one. I’ve saved up enough to get something a little bigger than this, maybe in a different part of town.” She ran her fingers up the soft skin on his inner arm, which he didn’t seem to mind. “I expected you to be far more touch-averse.”

“I suspect it is a combination of things. Endorphins, a rush of adrenaline from the attack, perhaps knowing I’m safe here.”

“Your assistant told me there were two teams on the flat tonight. I doubt we’re in any danger here.” Isabel rubbed her thumb against the underside of his wrist, wishing she was brave enough to kiss him. He looked at her face and smiled. One hand rested on her chest, where her heart thrummed with bridled desire, and he leaned down until their noses touched.

“Interesting. Heart-rate and respirations elevated, pupils dilated, skin flushed.” Mycroft chuckled, “Aroused. Highly.”

“I am aware of the symptoms of arousal, sir.” She rolled her eyes, “But your own body betrays you.”

“Does it?”

“And I found _this_ under my pillow when I’m quite certain I put it away after the last failed attempt to bring someone home for the night.” She waved the bottle of lube at him, not quite accusing him of anything. Isabel chuckled as he took it from her, set it on the mattress between them, and rolled so he was on top.

“What do you plan to do about that, Captain?”

“Well, normally I would be insulted by your presumption of where the night was going to end, but I rather think I’d like to see what it’s like to kiss you instead.”

“That can be arranged.” His eyes were bright grey and he leaned down until he was a breath away. Isabel sighed and tipped her head back a bit, bringing them into contact at long last. That first touch was electrifying, and he swallowed a gasp, careful to remain neutral. Isabel picked out different flavours: nicotine, menthol, whatever they’d eaten for dinner, tea, and her toothpaste. It wasn’t unpleasant. There was a tiny hint of copper, the taste of blood from the assault. It was a taste she was familiar with, a taste she was almost _fond_ of. She remembered it from post-mission shags when they got back to base with their miserable lives barely intact, lucky as hell to be alive and nearly unhurt, frantic and messy, chasing down elusive relief in the middle of a desert war-zone no sane, civilized person should have any business in. 

Isabel pressed her fingers to the back of Mycroft’s neck, brushing into the short strands of hair at the nape, taking careful hold. One of them moaned, she wasn’t sure who, and he pulled away to catch his breath.

“Holy Christ.” She panted, “Who taught _you_ how to kiss?”

“Simple experience.” He smiled, “Again?”

“Oh, _please_!” She tightened her grip on his hair and tugged him down.

“Pushy thing.”

“Shh.” She hissed, cutting off his ramble with a kiss that turned into the frantic, invasive kiss of “Thank god it’s us, we’re here, we’re alive.” that she was so used to. Hands wandered, found their way under clothes, and said clothes were quickly removed. Tee-shirts and bottoms were kicked away and tossed off the side, and she discovered that Mycroft, like herself, went commando under his pyjamas. There was a bit of bed-wrestling done, and yet, they never fell off the bed. She ended up pinned beneath him, stifling an indecent moan in his shoulder, trying desperately to avoid leaving any kind of mark on him. It was the work of a moment to find the condom, and she ripped the packet open with her teeth as he fumbled in the sheets for the lube, which he found down by her left foot and hoisted with a victorious _“Ah-_ _hah!”_ before making his slow way back up her body, leaving behind a torturous trail of kisses and nips. He braced his hands on either side of her head and kissed her hard.

“Do me the honours?” He huffed, taking the packet from her and shaking out the rolled rubber into her open hand. She smirked and obliged her partner. It wasn’t the first time she’d done it, and it wasn’t likely to be the last, but perhaps it would be the last time she did it for someone she wasn’t going to see more than twice. She was regularly tested for STI’s and STDs at work and knew she was clean, she suspected employee health regulations were the same if not more rigorous at MI6. But a precaution was always welcome. It was a work of moments before he was sliding home a bit at a time, and she realized that he was slightly bigger than most of her prior partners. She caught her breath as she shifted under him and the angle changed a bit.

“Oh… _Christ_.” She moaned through clenched teeth. Six months since her last honest shag and her partner was a bit bigger than any in her recent string of encounters. “M-My…croft!”

“Shh, shh. I’ve got you.” He whispered hoarsely, pressing his lips to her forehead and working his way down to her lips, “Relax, my dear.” She whined into a sweet, soothing kiss and forced her body to relax.

“Oh, Jesus. Sorry.” She sighed, chuckled, “It’s…ugh, it’s been a bit.”

“Hmm?”

“Six months? That last boyfriend I told you about.”

“The one who conveniently forgot to mention that he was allergic to cats, yes. His loss, then.” He nuzzled her collarbone, “Now, wrap your legs high about my back.” Fully relaxed, Isabel let her thighs fall open wide and felt him slide deeper, bottoming out a moment later. She loved the weight of him, the scent of him, and when he began to thrust gently, she felt a familiar tension in her core as he drew her to the brink. But he was nothing if not a crafty bastard and he pulled her back from that edge twice before taking mercy on her. 

When they were curled up on her bed later, having cleaned up from the fun and trying to get their breath back, she rested her head on his chest and listened to his heartbeat slow down.

“That, my dear, is stamina.”

“Fucking Christ. I wish I could hate you, but that was…fantastic.” Isabel sighed and nuzzled the warm skin under her cheek. “You’ve ruined me, you know?”

“My apologies.”

“Like you’re _actually_ sorry.” She rolled her eyes and pushed up to look at him, “You don’t do this very often, do you?”

“I am as picky about my partners as you are, if not more so. But I must be.” He shrugged, eyes tense, even though his touch was light and casual on her shoulders.

“Can’t have any state secrets falling into the wrong hands, can we?” She smirked, “My lips are sealed, Mycroft.”

“Mmh.” He matched her smirk and put a bit of pressure against the nape of her neck until she dropped her head, “I’ll show you the meaning.”

“Please. Do.” She punctuated the words with kisses, settling into a soft, subdued bout of kissing. She fell asleep listening to his heartbeat and kept warm by his body-heat. It wasn’t a bad way to end a crazy, long, slightly-agonizing day.

***

The morning came far too soon, brought to them by the nearly-simultaneous ringing of their phones and Aristo jumping from the windowsill onto the bed, using them as a landing pad.

“Damn it, Aristo!” Isabel hissed, throwing him off by rolling her shoulders. He landed on the floor with a startled thud, followed by an angry sound and she groaned. “Alright, alright, I’ll _feed_ you. Christ.” As she rolled out of bed, she dropped a kiss on Mycroft’s shoulder, “Up, love. Sun’s not up, but we are.” Once she had fed Aristo, she snatched up her phone and checked messages. Her employer had sent an email informing her that, until they could clear up the aftermath of the attack on Central Hall yesterday, she was on paid leave. A new contract should be up soon, she wouldn’t be out of work for long. She was skilled and smart, her record of employment was clean, and no complaints had ever been lodged against her. Internal investigations began that day, and she was called in for the first round of interviews. 

After a small breakfast of eggy toast and jam with coffee, she took a shower, got dressed in a clean uniform and checked her time. Parsons-Vintera Security Management’s headquarters were located in St. George Wharf Tower on Wandsworth Road, literally right across the street from MI6 headquarters, so when Mycroft offered her a ride in, she accepted. Besides, she wasn’t about to turn down a chance to spend more time with him. A black sedan very similar to the one she had seen last night picked them up out front of her flat and she slid in first when Mycroft held the door for her. It was a quiet but not uncomfortable commute, neither of them spoke, but she couldn’t think of a damn thing _to_ say. When they pulled up at the towers, she let him get out first and smiled as she ducked past him.

“Thanks for the ride, Mycroft.”

“A pleasure, my dear. Good luck.” He smiled and caught her hand in his, leaning in for a quick kiss, “Let me know how it goes, will you? How long you’ll be waiting for a new contract, if it’s long at all.”

“Of course! But unless you programmed your number into my phone while I wasn’t looking, I wouldn’t know the first thing about getting hold of you.” She smirked. He held out a business card, on which he had printed his name and a phone number. There was nothing else on it, not even an address or an email address. Isabel turned the card over and looked across the street to MI6, “Well, at least I know where to _find_ you today. I’ll call as soon I know something.” She handed him a card with all of her information on it, “Information for information, Mr Holmes.”

“Thank you.” He looked at the card and carefully tucked it into a pocket. Another quick peck on the cheek and she ran into the building, waving over her shoulder. The interviews seemed to take forever, and she walked out knowing only that she was still employed by Parsons-Vintera. By that time, it was past noon and she decided to go in search of something to eat. 

She walked out onto Wandsworth and pulled her phone from her pocket, fully intending to call Mycroft as she had promised, but as she pressed the dial button, she looked over across the street to the towering facade of MI6. Hmm. The call hadn’t gone through, so she ended it before it took, and pocketed her phone. Getting in shouldn’t be _too_ much of a problem, her credentials would speak for her if nothing else did, and something told her that Mycroft Holmes was in there. Somewhere. Getting in was relatively simple, she passed a rigorous security-checkpoint, and she gave the name of her contact at a circulation desk.

“Isabel Angalia to see Mycroft Holmes, if he’s in.” She tapped her fingers against the desk, flicking the business-card between her fingers as she did. The secretary nodded and bent to a monitor, looking at something.

“Yes, ma’am. He is currently in the Research & Development offices speaking to the Quartermasters.”

“Oh.” She knew enough about MI6 operations to know that the Quartermasters oversaw provisioning for field-agents, providing tech and weapons specialized to the agent in question. Once upon a time, she had _met_ an MI6 field-agent while deployed in Kuwait. It had been years ago and they had only been in company for three days. A very exciting, mad three days, if she remembered right, including one _very_ memorable night before he left to return to England. She didn’t have the heart to ask after James Bond, she wasn’t even sure he was still a field-agent. The secretary called for an aide to escort her down to Q-Division offices since it wasn’t a place outsiders like her were allowed to go without supervision. She ignored the look her escort was giving her and rocked back on her heels with her hands behind her back in parade-rest as they waited for a lift. When a lift _finally_ came, the escort was a little testy. The lift was _not_ empty when the doors opened, and the way the aide did a legitimate double-take was almost funny. Isabel did _not_ smile, as much as she wanted to. Apparently, it wasn’t often the head of MI6 came down from her high office and mingled with the lowly folks.

“Oh! G-good morning, ma’am!” The aide stammered, flustered by the sight of his boss.

“Mr Haley.” M looked around Haley and caught sight of Isabel, an eyebrow went up. A quick, complete once-over and the woman nodded, “Of course. I’ll take our guest from here, Mr Haley. Back to your post.”

“Y-yes, ma’am.” God bless Mr Haley, he wasn’t stupid enough to dictate to the Director how things should be done. And technically, she still had an escort.

“Captain Angalia.”

“Ma’am.” Isabel boarded the lift and settled into parade-rest as they continued down to Q-Division. “Good morning, M.”

“How did your interviews go, Isabel?”

“About as well as expected. I’d be an idiot if I didn’t think you already knew about the mess last night.”

“You and Mr Holmes handled yourselves appropriately and very well.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” She smiled, “It was…exciting. Most of my day was spent resenting the Parliamentarians because I was apparently beneath their regard when I was the one keeping their ungrateful asses _safe_.”

“You and Mr Holmes must have rather enjoyed yourselves, then. He despises that kind of work.”

“Mhm. I learned _that_ very quickly.” She chuckled, “So, what exactly _does_ he do? He’s no analyst, I’m not that ignorant, and I know more about this place than he’s aware of. Probably has no idea that you and I are related?”

“He does not.”

“Can I tell him?”

“You will not have to.” M smirked, “Mycroft Holmes is one of my smartest agents. You know who trained him, don’t you?”

“Bond?”

“Best I have. Bond and Trevelyan mentored him, they still do.”

“He couldn’t ask for two better teachers.” Isabel chewed on her lip, “He stayed with me last night, after the attack on Central Hall. His friend Lestrade drove us home.”

“Gregory Lestrade is a good man. Smart man, observant. He’ll make a good detective.”

“I can see that. He’s very…kind.” She sighed as the lift doors opened onto the Q-Division level, “He wasn’t one of yours, was he?”

“A long time ago.”

“He must have been cycled out for an injury.”

“You saw that?”

“The way he held himself. It’s healed well and all that’s left is a scar, but you can tell he was injured. Who was he protecting?”

“Holmes, Bond, and Trevelyan. They were all on a mission together. It went south very quickly. Holmes and Lestrade did their jobs well, but we were forced to dismantle the team after that and discharge Lestrade. If he ever wants to return, I’ve left the door open to him. He was very good at what he did.”

“Interesting. I thought there was something.” She chuckled, “Is Bond in today? I wanted to ask, but I wasn’t brave enough to drop his name upstairs.”

“He should be. If Q hasn’t booted him for breaking something or he hasn’t been dragged off by Trevelyan.”

“I haven’t seen Alec in a long time. I’m glad he’s still here.” Isabel stepped out of the lift and followed M to the Armory, where they followed the sound of three familiar voices to find the two 00’s arguing with Mycroft. Well, it wasn’t really _arguing_ , but he was getting picked on by the senior agents.

“Can you take matters from here, love?” M put one hand on her shoulder as they observed the agents.

“I think I can handle your rogue agents, Mémé. All three of them.” Isabel turned and kissed M on the cheek, “We’re all mature, responsible adults here, aren’t we?”

“I do wonder, sometimes. Please make sure they don’t destroy anything?”

“I’ll do my best.” She smirked and turned back as M left the Armory. After a bit, she sidled up to Q, who leaned against his work-station with a bemused expression on his face. She sometimes felt sorry for Q, who had the dubious honour of being James Bond’s Quartermaster and keeping him in line, “Q.”

“Good to see you, Isabel,” Q muttered.

“What are they going on about this time?”

“Ragging on him for last night. Heard you were involved?”

“I work for a security firm that had a contract with the venue. As of last night, the contract has been terminated and I’m on paid-leave for at least a month.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Stay with the firm, find a new place to live, and hope I get a better gig next time.” She shrugged, “It’s only a shame I won’t get to see much of MI6.”

“Bollocks you won’t! You can walk in here anytime you _want_ , you know.”

“Yes, but I don’t.” She sighed, “Should we break it up, do you think?”

“Before 006 eats my brother alive? Yes. Please.” Q rolled his eyes. Isabel chuckled and pursed her lips, letting out a shrill whistle. In a heartbeat, the three agents fell silent.

“Alright, boys, there’s enough room in the sandbox for everybody, so play nice.” She watched them each register her presence in the Armory, “You two, you know better than to pick on another agent like that.”

“Isabel!”

“Oh, knock it off.” She waved off their stunned expressions, “I actually came down here looking for Mr Holmes, and got the dubious pleasure of having to put up with _you_ two.” She looked between Bond and Trevelyan, who had the good sense to look a little ashamed of themselves, “Mhm. Be _nice_ to him. I don’t have to threaten a word to M, do I?”

“No! Jesus, no!” Alec Trevelyan put his hands up in a gesture of surrender, “Leave her out of this, if you don’t mind?”

“A little late for that, but if I don’t say it, it never happened.” She smirked, “You alright, Mycroft?”

“ _Fine_. I should have remembered my senior agents have an awful habit of picking on me after an assignment like last night’s attempt.” Mycroft glared at the 00’s, who looked far too pleased with themselves.

“Oh, you’re on a _first name_ basis with him now?”

“Of course I am, Mr Bond. Be nice, or I’ll have you posted to Serbia for the next nine months. I don’t think you’d like me much.”

“If I didn’t think you were serious.” He shook his head, “Tactful as ever, my dear.” He crossed to the workbench and kissed her.

“Oi! Public displays, 007! No!” She shoved him away, “You know better!”

“I’ve known you since you were old enough to set foot on the range, I can get away with a bit of affection.” He smirked and settled for a conciliatory kiss on the cheek, “You look well, my dear.”

“You’re downright impossible, Bond. Be nice to Holmes.”

“Very well.”

“How do you know Bond?”

“A _very_ long story.” Isabel smiled and went to Mycroft, “Not sure if you’d believe me or panic, actually. I’m surprised we’ve never met before now, but then again, I’m not around here as much as I used to be. Being in America and in the Army kind of made it hard. Leave was about all the time I ever got to come out here.”

“You have a _very_ interestingaccent, but you’re a native. Your…mother’s family. Suffolk, I’d wager. Parents divorced when you were thirteen, father moved to America, taking you and your brother with him. You talk to your mother but do not see her often. You left for university and service, never came home until 2002.” He circled her, “Familiarity with MI6, at least two 00 agents, both on a personal basis. You’ve known them since you were a child.”

“Bond since I was…ten, Trevelyan since I was twelve. I visited quite often when I was younger. Fairly certain my grandmother would have had something to say otherwise.” She smirked, “I’m not going to bury you in your sleep, Mr Holmes, and M would have strict words for us both if state-secrets got out on our lapse of judgement.”

“How do…do I _want_ to know?”

“Family. Simple as that.” She shrugged, “Don’t panic, but the woman all of MI6 answers to is my grandmother.”

“Oh my God.”

“You’re alright, Mycroft Holmes.” She leaned against him, “Come on, I’m getting you out of here. I’ve had a bloody awful morning.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Where are we going?”

“Somewhere that’s not… _here_.” She took him by the hand and threw a look over her shoulder at the 00’s, “And try not to blow anything up while I’m gone, please? I don’t need to hear it from Q or my grandmother.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ll keep ‘em in line, Captain. Don’t you worry your head about it.” Q reassured her with a smile and a jaunty wave that didn’t seem to fit with his brother’s stern personality. They passed by M talking to a group of analysts on their way out of MI6, but she did not stop them.

“Good morning, ma’am.”

“Good morning, Mr Holmes. Captain Angalia.” She smiled as they exchanged greetings in passing, “Off home are you?”

“Just a few hours, ma’am.” Isabel smiled, “I’ll bring him back.” The only response they got out of M was a smirk. Damn smart woman knew exactly what they were up to. Not that Isabel was surprised. After leaving headquarters, Isabel heaved a sigh and shoved her hands into her pockets, leaning her head back to look at the sky.

“So, answer me this, then, Captain.”

“Hmm?”

“If you know so many people in MI6 and clearly have the skills, why on _earth_ are you working private security and scraping for contracts?” he tapped his brolly on the pavement before he popped it open to hold off the rain that had just started.

“Because I’ve already done the whole secrecy bit.” She rubbed the back of her neck, feeling a drop of rain slide under her collar, “Damn.”

“Here.” The rain stopped as Mycroft angled his brolly to cover them both, reaching up with one hand to flick rain from her hair, “That will do.”

“Thanks.” She smiled over her shoulder at him. He tipped his head to indicate the waiting car.

“Our ride is here.”

“God bless you, Mycroft Holmes.” She sighed and they walked to the car together, she ducked in first. Once Mycroft was in, he directed the driver back across Vauxhall Bridge to Sake no Hana, a rather upscale Japanese restaurant in Mayfair. As they got out, she saw a squad-car parked on the street and narrowed her eyes. As she held the door for Mycroft, she kept an eye on the car and watched the driver’s door pop open. A minute later, Greg Lestrade slammed the door and leaned against the car like he’d been waiting forever. Isabel wrinkled her nose. “Does he do that a lot?”

“Hmm?” Mycroft looked at her. She tipped her head at Lestrade. “Oh. Sometimes. Of course, after last night, can you blame him?”

“I suppose not.” She tapped the roof of the car and it pulled away. Once the car was gone, Lestrade went around and knocked on the back window of his car. “There’s more to this rendezvous.” Lestrade pulled the back door open and they watched, sheltered from the rain, as a tall youth with curly black hair and pale skin, wearing a pair of faded, ripped denims, combat boots, a red-and-black striped Baja hoodie, and a black shooting-jacket, slid from the car. His attitude was listless and sullen, like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have. And, knowing what she did about addicts and subsequent behaviour patterns, she wouldn’t be at all surprised to find out he had done something not quite legal.

“Oh no.” Mycroft’s whole personality changed when he spotted Lestrade’s young ward. “Isabel, I’m so sorry.”

“You can stop right there, Mr Holmes.” She put a hand on his arm, “I’ve seen him, and far worse, as a firefighter. Let’s get his story, get him home, and take care of him. He’ll need you to support him.”

“He’ll need _rehab_.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” She pulled away from Mycroft, “He’ll be getting a hot meal before we take him anywhere. I’ll cover his bill.” As she crossed the short distance between them, focusing on the lanky young junkie, Isabel recalled every bit of her paramedic’s training. She looked at Lestrade, who wore an expression of worn-out patience, “Where did you find him?”

“He came to _me_ , believe it or not.” Lestrade glanced at the young man, “Said he had a lead on a case I’ve got sitting on my desk.”

“And you said…?”

“Not unless he was sober. Part of an agreement.”

“Then what is he doing _here_?”

“He’s been missing for two weeks.”

“Ah.” She turned to the listless junkie, who didn’t seem to be high at the moment, “You must be Sherlock Holmes.” All that got her was a noncommittal shrug. She was used to that behaviour. She pulled a pen-torch from a slot on the sleeve on her coat and nitrile gloves from an inner pocket.

“Sit down.”

“What?”

“Sit. Down.” She gave him a gentle push and waited as he sat down in the back seat of Lestrade’s car. Clenching the pen-torch between her teeth, she pulled on the gloves and eyed up Mycroft’s younger brother. As soon as she had the gloves on, she leaned over him and flicked the torch on. “I’m not going to hurt you, you know.”

“I’m not going to hurt you, you know.”

“You’re not a medic.”

“No, but I used to be.” She narrowed her eyes, “Well if you _were_ high, you’re not anymore. Pupil dilation normal bilaterally, eyes are clear but a bit glassy, a bit bloodshot, mucosa are red and slightly inflamed, tongue and lips are pink, slightly mottled, oral mucosa smooth. Teeth and gums are in good shape, so whatever you take, you don’t take orally, but you _do_ smoke cigarettes. Pulse and respiration are completely normal.” She was talking mostly to herself, rattling off symptoms of a come-down, “ Mr Holmes, if you _were_ high, you’ve either flushed it from your system or you’re on a crash right now.” She tugged on his jacket, “Off with the jacket.” He shrugged out of it and she pushed his sleeves back, running her fingers along fading tracks, “These are at least two weeks old, and there aren’t any newer ones. The oldest scars I can see here are at least six months prior. What caused a relapse, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I got…bored.” Sherlock blinked rapidly, puzzled, “You’re not angry?”

“Sherlock, I’ve seen a lot worse than you, I’ve seen an overdose kill a kid younger than _you_.” She stood back and waved him out of the car as she pulled off the gloves and bundled them up, putting them in a baggie that she put back into her pocket, “Put your coat back on, it’s too cold to be without one today.” Once he had struggled into the shooting-jacket, she zipped it up and turned the collar up, “You haven’t eaten in nearly as long as it’s been since you last used, let’s get you something to eat and get you home.”

“I’m not…”

“You need to eat. Not a full meal, your stomach can’t handle it, but you need to eat something. Come on. I’ll buy you lunch.” She nudged him in the direction of the door of the restaurant, entirely ignoring Lestrade and Mycroft and therefore completely missed their matching expressions of absolute disbelief. The maître d’ looked at the pair of them as they came in and an eyebrow went up.

“How many will be in your party this afternoon?” He asked with a condescending tone in his voice as he looked over Sherlock, who shot him a sullen glare.

“Four. Thanks.” Isabel pinched the back of Sherlock’s neck, a warning to behave himself, as she shot the man a threatening smile. “Private table if you’ve got one.”

“Oh, uh…yes ma’am.” He blinked in alarm as the door opened behind them and Mycroft and Lestrade came in, chatting in low voices, shaking rain from their coats and Mycroft’s umbrella, “Uh, M-Mr Holmes’s party?”

“Yes, thank you.” She bared her teeth just enough to get the point across and they only waited ten minutes for a table to open up. As soon as they were seated, drinks were ordered and an appetizer. Their waiter was a friendly woman about Greg’s age from Kyoto who was very kind and understood that they might be called out at any time. Isabel sat next to Sherlock, who sat quietly and made no fuss at all. When they ordered, she ordered a bowl of white miso soup and steamed rice for Sherlock, knowing that his stomach wouldn’t be able to handle much more than that. They informed their server that the rice and miso would be a separate check, but she just smiled and promised to keep the bills separate. Mycroft, who had eaten here before, ordered the Nigiri Moriwase plate for all of them to share with three bowls of miso soup. They split an order of salted edamame and seasonal veg tempura and kept conversation neutral. Lestrade asked if Isabel would still be working for Parsons-Vintera Security Management after last night.

“I still work for Parsons-Vintera, but not on that contract. I’m on paid leave for a month while they find something else.”

“And if they don’t?”

“I still owe the Army a few years of service.” She shrugged and popped an edamame pod open, picking out the lentils inside, “I wasn’t fit for service after 9/11, anyway, but I was never discharged from service.”

“God bless you for that. American?”

“Yep. Could have gone to either one, seeing as I’m a dual-citizen of the UK and the United States, but since I lived in America, that’s the armed services I went to.”

“You were a field-medic, but that wasn’t the only thing you did.” Sherlock piped up from nibbling on a piece of zucchini tempura, “You have a dark record, too, don’t you?”

“It’s not so much a matter of I don’t want to talk about it, I just don’t have much to talk _about_.” She shrugged, wondering what they would say if they knew she was a sniper and had, on more than one occasion, saved lives and taken them in the span of the same twenty-four hours.

“Special Forces? That’s gutsy of you.” Lestrade whistled low, “I’m impressed. Good for you, Captain. Well done.”

“Someone’s gotta do it.” She smirked, “We’ll see where the future takes me.” Lunch ended up being a rather delightful break from the craziness of last night, this morning’s monotony of interviews, and the drag of the past few weeks. She paid for Sherlock’s lunch, Mycroft paid for everything else, and while Mycroft had to get back to MI6, Isabel had nowhere to be. She had plans for Sherlock, of course, but she needed his cooperation. He was coming off of a high, obviously, but she wanted to make sure he wasn’t currently high. As they stood in the rain, she looked at Mycroft’s brother.

“Is there _any_ way I can talk you into going to a clinic before I take you home, Sherlock?”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want you going to rehab if you don’t need it. You might, but I don’t know that.” She looked up at the rain from under the shield of Mycroft’s brolly, which he had left with her.

“Oh.” He frowned, “Why…why do you care?”

“Because no one else seems to.” She sighed, “Please, Sherlock?”

“And if I’m _not_?”

“I’m taking you back to mine, you’ll sleep off the rest of this, eat when I tell you, and when you’re sober, I’ll hand you back to Lestrade so you can help on his cases.” She looked for a cab, “And of course there’s nothing out here.”

“Lestrade’s still here.”

“I’ve already bummed a ride from him. I’d hate to ask again.” She looked over her shoulder at the kind sergeant, “Lestrade!”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Any chance we can bum a lift from you?”

“Where to?” He stood by his car, not really refusing to help.

“Nearest clinic.”

“Bart’s would be closest.” He ducked into the car, “Get in!”

“Perfect. After you, sir.” She nudged Sherlock into motion and gratefully dropped into the warm, dry car, “Thank you so much, Sergeant. That’s twice you’ve given me a ride somewhere.”

“Glad to help, ma’am.”

“How do _you_ two know each other?” Sherlock muttered.

“We _don’t_. He gave me a ride home last night after the mess over at Central Hall.” Isabel sighed, “Bad night it was.”

“You might have had a bad night, Captain,” Lestrade grinned as they navigated London’s midday traffic on their way to Saint Bart’s Hospital, “but you two were giddy as kids on the drive home.”

“It’s called an adrenaline rush.” She tapped her knuckles against the window, “Not that I haven’t done things equally stupid and dangerous in the Army, of course.” Lestrade snickered but held his peace. Sherlock sat in the back-seat, quiet and contemplative. She looked over her shoulder and studied him for a minute. “Take it that one doesn’t talk much?” She whispered. Lestrade glanced in the rear-view mirror and shook his head.

“Nah. But most of the time, people aren’t nice to him.”

“I’ve seen my share of junkies, Sergeant Lestrade, he’ll be a piece of cake.” She settled into the seat and wondered what she would do with her future. Going back to the Army was looking _very_ appealing right now. And she really did have time to make up, time she owed them. When they got to Saint Bart’s, she and Lestrade escorted Sherlock to the proper part of the hospital and waited for him. Urine and hair samples had been taken and results would be back in three days. In the meantime, Sherlock was free to go. She took him back to her flat and introduced him to Aristo, who warmed up to the young junkie _very_ quickly. Once Sherlock had fallen asleep, she sent a text to Mycroft.

 

**Text to Mycroft Holmes: (sent 15.15pm)**

**Had Sherlock tested @ St. Bart’s, results due in 3d. Took him back to Cleveland Street. – Isabel**

 

**Text to Isabel: (sent 15.16pm)**

**Thank you. – MH**

The response was relatively quick to come and very short. Not that she had expected much from the clever young agent. He was busy, probably with mopping up whatever insurgent operation had gone sideways last night. She sighed and cleaned up her cramped little flat a bit to keep herself busy and started looking for bigger places. 

Sherlock ended up sleeping until seven, so she ordered takeaway from Da Beppe’s down the street and brought back ‘pasta pomodoro basilico with penne’ for Sherlock and the ‘ravioli ricotta e spinaci’ for herself. She had ordered from Da Beppe’s before and the owner’s wife was rather fond of her, so she wasn’t surprised when a bottle of house white wine and an order of tiramisu from Trattoria Monte Bianco down the street showed up on her bill, charged half-price for the wine and the dessert on the house. Getting back to her flat, she found Sherlock sitting up on her bed, her laptop perched on his knees, Aristo sitting on his shoulders.

“What are you _doing_?” She set the bags down and dug up her bottle-opener, “Trying to hack my laptop, are you?”

“You have better protection than most.”

“Happens when you’re ex-military.” She worked the cork out of the wine and grunted as it popped free, “What are you trying to get?”

“Email.”

“Here. Hand it over.” She set the wine on the work-top and took the laptop from him, signed into her desktop, and pulled up her browser, “Do _not_ hack my email, or so help me, I will bury you alive.”

“My brother’s MI6, I’d like to see you try.”

“I’m ex-Special Forces, sweetheart, he’d probably help.” She patted him on the cheek, “Come and eat first, then you can do whatever it is you’re up to. But kill my computer, and I swear.”

“I won’t put a virus on your laptop. I think my brother likes you enough he might kill me for it.” Sherlock set her laptop down and hopped from the bed after dislodging Aristo, “Your cat is very friendly.”

“Only with you and your brother. He hates strangers.” She shrugged, “Come on, you.” He sat down at the little table and dutifully ate. He didn’t eat much, maybe a quarter of the pasta, and settled on her futon couch to work on emails. She pulled out spare bedding and set it on the end of the couch for him. “The couch is a futon, by the way. I’ll help you make it up so you can sleep here.”

“Oh. Thank you.” He glanced up at her as she made her way to the bathroom with her pyjamas in hand, “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure?”

“Why are you so nice to me? Do you _want_ something?”

“In the context of your question and your own history? No. I don’t want a damn thing. You need a little help, Sherlock, and you’re not about to take it from your brother or Lestrade. I don’t know why, that’s not my business, but I’ll do what I can if you let me.”

“You won’t send me to rehab?”

“Already said I wouldn’t.” She wondered what kind of childhood he had gone through that someone being nice for the sake of it was so foreign to him. What had _happened_ to him? Like last night, she heard a hollow knock and sighed.

“That’s Mycroft.”

“Probably with your things. Get the door, please.” Going out as she heard the brothers talking, she found Mycroft in his suit, holding an overnight bag in one hand.

“Hello, Mycroft.”

“Hello, Isabel.” He smiled, “I can’t stay, I was just dropping a few things off for Sherlock.”

“Thank you.” She took the bag and set it on the couch, “You’re not working all night again, are you?”

“No, M wouldn’t let me.”

“Not after last night, I imagine.” She glanced at Sherlock, who made a face but didn’t say anything. Clearly, the brothers didn’t _quite_ get along. “Sherlock, hush. He’s welcome here as you are. He won’t spend the night, but I’m not going to kick him out right away.”

“Don’t know _what_ you see in him.” He muttered.

“Oh enough from you! Christ, even Q’s not that bad!” She reached over and smacked him with a flat, loose hand on the back of the head, “Be _have_ , Sherlock Holmes.” As Sherlock rolled his eyes and headed for the bathroom to change into pyjamas, Mycroft opened the window to let Aristo out for the night. Isabel found another wine-glass and held up the bottle in invitation. He hesitated, obviously intrigued, and glanced out the window. She followed his gaze and smirked.

“Car’s gone, My. You can stay a bit. I can’t imagine they’d go very far.”

“No, they wouldn’t.” He sighed and loosened his tie, shedding his jacket, “Very well.”

“Relax, I’ll make sure your brother behaves himself.” She poured herself another glass of wine and one for Mycroft, “Got this from the restaurant down the street. The owner’s wife is sweet on me.”

“Excellent.” He took the glass she handed him and settled on her bed, patting the mattress next to him, “Did my brother complain?”

“No. I think he was so tired it never occurred to him _to_ complain.” She smiled and sat beside him, stretching out a little. “I’m just selfish enough to wish it was just us tonight.”

“Hmm.” Mycroft hummed and sipped the wine. Two glasses later, at least for Mycroft, Sherlock had muttered and fussed and finally fallen asleep on the futon, leaving them to enjoy a brief moment of silence.

“You didn’t drug his food, did you?”

“No, but I did slip a sleep-aid into the water he drank fifteen minutes ago.” She smirked, “I anticipate he’s going to have something to say about that in the morning.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t taste it.”

“I’m sure he did, but who knows?” She shrugged and looked over her shoulder. “I can’t convince you to _stay_ , can I? Not asking for anything, just…”

“You shouldn’t be required to house us both. I won’t impose.”

“Oh, bollocks, My!” She snorted, “You’re not an imposition, either of you!”

“Very well.” He smirked, downed the last of his wine, and headed for the bathroom after she handed over the tee-shirt and bottoms he’d worn the night before and left behind that morning. She followed and brushed her teeth while he changed out of his suit, which she carefully hung up on the hangars for tomorrow. It was funny to see him with a toothbrush in his mouth as he texted his driver to send him home for the night.

“That’s not a work car. Private?”

“Family.”

“Nice.” She spit, rinsed, and washed her toothbrush, passing him with a kiss on the cheek, “You’re a good brother, Mycroft.”

“I…”

“Didn’t have to say a word, I read it. He may resent you, but you care, and that’s what matters.”

“How are you real?” He looked over his shoulder at her as he finished brushing his teeth. She grinned and headed for bed, pulling the covers back and climbing in. Mycroft was right behind her, and she fell asleep with his arm over her hips, just holding her still. There were no disturbances that night and her flat was quiet.

The next morning, she woke to both brothers sitting on the couch, talking in quiet voices. They were still in pyjamas and she raised an eyebrow in question as she discovered coffee had already been prepared. She didn’t have a job to report to, Sherlock wasn’t employed, but Mycroft? It was certainly late enough he would have been missed. Getting herself a cup of coffee, she smiled as Aristo let himself in and went straight to the bed. Settling on her bed with her laptop, she checked her email and pulled up the email-addresses for her superior officers. At this rate, she would likely go to Kuwait, Germany, or Italy. Either of the European stations would be fine with her, she could still come back to England and it would be simple for Mycroft to visit her on-base if he wanted. Kuwait would put her in the war-zone, closer to danger. That would lead, inevitably, to deployments in Iraq and Afghanistan. Touching base with the proper authorities and explaining her circumstances, she settled to wait. She had a month in which to make that decision and made sure they knew that. If they wanted her, they had a month to find her a post, otherwise, she would wait for another contract with her security firm.

Three days came and went, and the test results came back negative. Sherlock Holmes was, for all intents and purposes, clean and sober. With this knowledge, Isabel kept her promise and gave him back to Lestrade to help with cases. She also got a promise out of Sherlock to _stay_ clean. Whether or not he would was different, but she wasn’t his keeper and she had taken his word on good faith. She would understandably be disappointed if he relapsed, but she understood how difficult it was to stay clean when you were so deeply addicted.

***

After settling affairs with the Holmes brothers, Isabel waited for word from her commanding officers. Naturally, the Army was eager to have her service and she got orders to ship out. Her first deployment in almost six years was to Kuwait, with orders to report to Camp Victory. Turning in her notice to Parsons-Vintera, she dug up her army gear and got ready to turn her back on civilian life. The day she shipped out, Mycroft took her to the airport. The way he looked at her in her fatigues was both flattering and heartbreaking.

“Please be safe, Isabel.”

“Safe as I can be.” She smiled and took his hands as they stood outside the security checkpoint, “I’ll let you know when I get there, and I’ll write when I can.”

“And that is all I can ask for.” Mycroft sighed, rubbing the sleeve of her jacket with reluctant fingers, moving to smooth the front, lingering over her name-stripe. “Good luck, Captain Angalia.” 

She held his hand still over her heart and leaned in, touching foreheads with him and turning her head to nuzzle his cheek.

“I’m going to miss you, Mycroft.” She murmured, “Be safe.”

“I’m not the one going to Kuwait.”

“No, but you’re MI6. You visit as many dangerous places as I do.” She smiled and hugged him, tightly, “Thank you.”

“Goodbye, Isabel. Safe travels.” Mycroft returned her hug, it had taken him a few days to get over his hang-ups about physical intimacy outside of the bedroom, and leaned in for a proper kiss. With their goodbyes said, it was time for her to leave. At the bottom of the escalator, she looked up and saw him standing at the railings, looking at the security queues. She waved and saw him blow her a kiss. Funny how so much had changed between them in three weeks. Well, it had been a fantastic three weeks and all she had to remember him by.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Bold/Italics": British Sign Language
> 
> Bold: Text/email
> 
> "Italics": Phone/radio conversation  
> *  
> The underlined bit is the line I borrowed from the lovely stickyrice!


	2. A Future of Uncertain Terms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The years following her first deployment in seven years went by with a bizarre mesh of too quickly and not quickly enough. Isabel stayed in touch with Mycroft Holmes, writing when she had time, occasionally receiving a response. Their letters became fewer as his job-requirements changed, but they never completely lost touch. And every leave she could manage, she visited London and made an effort to see and spend time with him. Sometimes he was out of town on business and she would call him instead, just to hear his voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1:  
> Housing Notes: So, because the muses are so bloody inconsistent, I've decided to move Isabel to a place in Paddington on Prince's Mews. Technically she could live with Mycroft, but that hasn't happened yet and once she does move in with him, they'll likely keep the Prince's Mews house, maybe as a safe-house or something like that.  
> -Mycroft lives in a neat Art Deco house on Aubrey Walk in Kensington with some cool history (it's one of London's "Blue Plaque" houses). I haven't gotten to the point of deciding whether or not to move Mycroft from Aubrey Walk to something else, but I'll take suggestions? It will, eventually, be two adults, a toddler, and a dog. findproperly.com is my friend.

* * *

***

The years following her first deployment in seven years went by with a bizarre mesh of too quickly and not quickly enough. Isabel stayed in touch with Mycroft Holmes, writing when she had time, occasionally receiving a response. Their letters became fewer as his job-requirements changed, but they never completely lost touch. And every leave she could manage, she visited London and made an effort to see and spend time with him. Sometimes he was out of town on business and she would call him instead, just to hear his voice. Occasionally, her leave would coincide with a particularly interesting case that Sherlock Holmes had gotten himself involved in, so she would help out. Greg Lestrade was always happy to have her along, and occasionally sent her particularly troublesome cold cases that could do with solving. She wasn't as smart as the Holmes boys, but she could hold her own on solving cold cases in her spare moments.

In 2017, she made a trip home from a deployment in Germany, and as the Eurostar pulled up to the platform in St. Pancras International in London, she wondered if she could surprise Mycroft with her last promotion. Nineteen years of service and she had been promoted to the rank of Lieutenant Colonel of the United States Army. She had climbed the rank-ladders quickly after clearing the qualifications for officer training early in her career so this wasn’t a bad place to land. As she set foot on home-soil for the first time in far too long, she couldn’t shake off the feeling that something wasn’t right. It had started when she was approximately halfway between Dusseldorf and London, and it hadn’t gone away. In her concern, she had called both of the Holmes brothers and the two contacts who usually answered if one of them didn’t. But no one, not Sherlock, Mycroft, John Watson, _or_ Greg Lestrade, was answering. She had left numerous voicemails and text messages for each of them, hoping _someone_ would call her back. As she debarked from the train, carrying only a duffel-bag over one shoulder, she decided to try again. She had sent her things ahead to be delivered to her flat on Prince's Mews and made arrangements with her stepbrother to pick up her dog from kenneling if he hadn’t done that already. She had to get in touch with her mother eventually, but first, she needed to get an idea of why no one was getting back to her.

 

**Text to Victor Richardson:**

**V, back in town. Any chance you can pick Jupe up from kenneling for me? – Isabel**

 

**Text to Isabel:**

**Already collected the little shit. He missed you, but he was happy to see me. The kiddos will be _thrilled_ to keep him. What’s planned? – Vic**

 

**Text to Victor Richardson:**

**Nothing. Yet. Trying to get hold of someone, but he’s not answering. – Isabel**

 

She sighed, wondering if something had happened and thinking, at the same time, that she would have been notified if something _had_. She adjusted her bag over her shoulder and dialled Mycroft again. She had just stepped out of the station, prepared to hail a cab, her call ringing through on her Bluetooth headset, when she heard a sharp whistle and someone yelling her name.

“Hey! Angalia! Yo!” There was a commotion to her right and she glanced up, “Sorry. Sorry, excuse me.” Pushing through the crowd was a familiar face. “Sorry! Jesus, _move_!” Isabel stopped and quickly hung up.

“Greg?”

“Oh thank  _Christ_! We thought you’d fly in!” Greg Lestrade had aged gracefully, of course, but at the moment he was a man in distress, “I’ve got people waiting for you at LCY and Heathrow! Where have you  _been_?!”

“Trying to get home from Germany. You knew where I was deployed.” She waved her phone at him, “I’ve been trying to get _hold_ of you, what the hell is going on? What happened?”

“Come on, you’d better come with me.” He took her bag and grabbed her by the hand, pulling her towards his car. Throwing her bag in the back seat, he held the passenger door for her, “In.”

“Greg.” She looked at him, “What. Happened? I’ve felt sick since about Lille.”

“It’s a _long_ story. Short version of it: John, Sherlock, and Mycroft got kidnapped.”

“By _who_? All three at once?” She dropped into the seat and buckled up, “Moriarty?”

“Yeah, and someone working for him. Long-lost sister named Eurus. The last four months have been pure hell for all of us, I’m glad you weren’t around for it. We could have used you, but it was bad.” Greg got in and threw the car into gear, flipping on the lights and sirens, “John ended up at the bottom of an abandoned well, nearly drowned, and Mycroft…he’s in the hospital. Shot.”

“Oh. My God.” _That_ explained everything. She rubbed her face with one hand, noticing that Greg’s were shaking, “Is he going to make it, Greg?”

“The doctors were pretty optimistic about his chances, but they would feel better about the odds if he would wake up.” Greg took a corner a little harder than strictly necessary, going faster than necessary, but they had somewhere to be.

“How long has he been out?”

“In and out of it for almost a full week. John and Sherlock have been in and out, his parents have visited.” Greg shook his head.

“You’ve been there, obviously.” She sighed, wondering why she felt so calm. Isabel knew that there hadn't been enough time between the conclusion of the incident in question and now for  _her_ parents to visit, or they would have called her right away. She guessed that no one else had brought it up because anyone who might have was already intimately involved and trying to keep themselves together. The rest of the drive was made in silence, and as soon as they pulled up to The Royal London Hospital, she was out of the car and heading for the entrance. Greg went to park and caught up with her as she asked for Mycroft Holmes.

“Are you family?” The nurse looked up at her, then over her shoulder as Greg came up behind her, “Oh! Good afternoon, Inspector!”

“Afternoon, Gracie. How’s he doing?”

“No change at all.”

“Damn.” Greg drummed his fingers on the desk, “Who’s with him?”

“No one, at the moment. The boys left half an hour ago, said someone else would be up to take over soon.” The nurse, Gracie, smiled at Greg, “Thought they might mean you.”

“I’m not going to stay, I’ve got to get back to The Yard, but he won’t be alone.” Greg looked at Isabel, “This is Isabel Angalia, she’ll be staying with him as long as necessary. If one of the three of us isn’t here, she will be.”

“Oh! I know you!” Gracie blinked suddenly, as if struck, “You’re the soldier! The one in the pictures by his bed! Oh, I didn’t put that together! Hi!”

“Hello.” Isabel nodded politely, now that she was in the hospital she was a bit desperate, “Can I see him?”

“Oh, of course you can, hon! Go right up, just let the nurses up there know who you’re seeing, they’ll take care of it!” Gracie handed them a card and pointed the way to the lifts. It was quiet as they took the lift to the Adult Critical Care Unit on 4E, and as she stepped out onto the ward, Isabel found herself messing with the ring on her right hand. She did that when she was nervous or bored, and as she followed Greg to the ward desk, she quietly switched it to her left hand. Mycroft had been asking for almost two years for her to consider switching hands, and she hadn’t. He respected her wishes, they had been friends for long enough he wasn’t going to hold it against her, but she knew he really wanted her to do it. As she took the visitor’s badge from Greg, writing her name on it and sliding the paper into the slot, she didn’t miss the way Greg’s eyes widened.

“Don’t say anything.”

“Christ!” He breathed, “It’s about damn _time_! How long have you worn that?”

“Maybe too long.” She shrugged, “How long has he bugged me to switch hands?”

“ _Years_. You’ve been friends for fourteen years, he gave you that ring in 2007 and you’ve worn it on your right hand ever since.” He took her hand in his, “It’s gorgeous. Simple but elaborate.” And Mycroft wore the other one, they had bought a set. When they got to the room, it was empty. Greg held the door for her and she sat down at the bedside, thinking of the other times she’d done this same thing. Taking his hand in hers, she noticed that Mycroft’s ring was gone. They must have taken it when he was admitted. It wasn’t right to her, to see his hands bare like that. Narrowing her eyes, she looked around.

“Something wrong, sweetie?”

“His ring’s gone.”

“Oh. Yeah. They took it off when he was brought in. Here.” He went to a bedside locker and pulled out a personal effects pouch, taking a small box from it. Inside the box, on a pillow of cotton-fluff, was Mycroft’s ring. She took the ring out of the box and returned it to Mycroft’s left hand, worn the same way she now wore hers. She settled against the bed-frame, holding his hand in both of hers, and wondering when he would wake up. Isabel felt a heaviness in her chest and hated whoever had done this to him.

“Please wake up, My. I didn’t come home to let you die, you moron.” She leaned over him and kissed him on the forehead, “You will open your eyes and we’re going to talk about this. Do you hear me? I know you’re in there, and it’s time to come back.” Greg didn’t stay long, he really did have to get back to the office, so as soon as she was settled, he headed out.

“You’ll be alright here by yourself?”

“Yeah, I should be.” She looked up, “Not like this is the first time I’ve had to do this for him, ya know?”

“No, I guess it wouldn’t be.” Greg smiled and came over, giving her a quick hug and kissed her on the temple, “Chin up, kiddo, he’ll pull out of this in time.”

“I wish I believed you.” She rubbed her thumb across Mycroft’s knuckles. Her watch read just after six pm. According to hospital visiting-hours, she only had another three hours to sit here. She would stay overnight if they’d let her, otherwise, she would go home to her flat and come back in the morning.

“Take it easy, Isabel. Call me or the boys if you need anything, right?”

“Thanks, Greg. For everything.” She sighed, only aware of him leaving when she heard the door close. As soon as he was gone, she put her head down on the blanket, hanging on to Mycroft’s hand, and cried a little. It was exhaustion and nerves, mostly.

***

Greg Lestrade sighed as he leaned against the door to Mycroft Holmes’s hospital-room, rubbing his forehead with the heel of one hand.

“Jesus Christ.” All he wanted was a stiff drink and twelve hours of sleep. After a minute to get himself together, he stopped by the desk on his way out, “Can you let Doctor Francisco know that Mr Holmes has a guest and she’s probably not going to leave tonight?”

“Of course, Detective Inspector. Is she a friend?”

“No.” He shook his head, running one hand through his hair, “She’s a whole hell of a lot more than a friend.” He tapped the desk as he turned away, “I’ll stop by later, and you might see Holmes and Watson again.”

“Of course, sir. Have a good night.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” He sighed and headed for his car. On his way back to The Met, he called John Watson. Thankfully, the man answered his phone right away, unlike certain others of their acquaintance.

_“ Hey, Greg.”_

_“Hi, John. Sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you two, I know you probably only got back a bit ago.”_ He tightened his grip on the steering-wheel, _“But I thought you’d like to know that I found Isabel Angalia.”_

_“ Thank Christ! Where?!”_

_“St. Pancras International. She took the train from Dusseldorf and got in about half-an-hour ago. I drove straight to Royal London from the station.”_

_“_ _Thank you, Greg. Oh my god.”_ John sounded terrible, _“Thank you so much. How did she take it?”_

 _“About as well as might be expected.”_ He manoeuvred through traffic, _“Don’t think she’ll be leaving anytime soon, though.”_

_“ Not that I’d expect her to.”_

_“Hey, John?”_

_“Hmm?”_

_“She switched the ring to her left hand.”_ He swallowed hard, _“Just thought you should know that.”_

_“She…oh my god. She did?”_

_“Yes. And she did the same for Mycroft.”_

_“I think we’ll hold off on telling Mummy just for a bit.”_

_“She could probably use the distraction of planning a wedding right about now, though.”_ He pulled into the underground car-park at The Met and looked for a place to park if his slot was taken, which it sometimes was.

_“Yeah, maybe. Let’s wait a bit, though? For our sakes if nothing else?”_

_“Why, think you’ll get dragged into it?”_

_“You know we will.”_ He could just hear the anguish in John’s voice at the thought of sitting through hours of Evelyn Holmes carrying on about wedding plans and chuckled. Guest lists, seating arrangements, locations for the ceremony and the reception, if they were in different places or in the same place, what time of year, colours, flowers the likes. _Thinking_ about it made Greg dizzy and he wasn’t romantically involved with _either_ brother! He’d gotten lucky with Molly Hooper, in hindsight, escaping the stress and drama with a low-key civil wedding that involved very little planning, fewer than twenty guests, and coming in on three years married. Which reminded him. He had to call _her_ next. Ever since the showdown at Sherrinford, and the Musgrove rescue, she had been almost inconsolable.

 _“I'll catch you later, John. I've gotta get back to my desk.”_ He pocketed his keys and made sure he had everything else as he headed for the entrance to the building.

_“No worries, Greg. Thanks for calling, I'll let Sherlock know.”_

_“Do that. I'll stop by and check on you two later. Take care.”_ He hung up with John and put his phone in his pocket as he badged into the building and headed for the lifts.

Once he got to his office, he sat down at a cluttered desk. Picking up his desk-phone, he pulled his computer out of hibernation and checked for messages. A call to Molly’s mobile-phone went unanswered, so he left a voicemail and called her office at Bart’s. This time, as she usually did, she answered.

 _“_ _Saint Bart’s Pathology and Morgue, this is Doctor Hooper.”_ He chuckled at the sound of his wife’s voice.

_“Hi, sweetie.”_

_“Oh! Greg! Hi!”_ And there it was, he’d distracted her. _“Where are you?”_

_“Just got back to the office. I need to call off the watchers at the airports, I found Angalia.”_

_“ Oh, you did! Where?”_

_“Train station, of all places. I left her at the hospital with Mycroft, I’ll go back after work and check on them.”_

_“ Thank God she’s home.”_

_“Yeah, you’re telling_ _me.”_ He sighed, ruffling his hair. “God, I can’t wait for the nightmare to just…be over.” None of them had slept in weeks, and it didn’t look like it was going to get better any time soon. But maybe that would change now that Isabel was home. He had always liked the girl, she had always seemed to mesh so well with Mycroft, who had been Greg’s best friend for most of their lives. As children, in school, and in their professional lives. Sometimes he missed MI6, but he saw enough of his old coworkers that it made up for it. M was good at maintaining contact, and a standing offer to come back if he felt like it. He went out for drinks occasionally with James Bond and Alec Trevelyan, sometimes he stopped by MI6 to visit Mycroft and ran into the 00’s. It was an agreeable arrangement. After hanging up with Molly, he worked on clearing off his desk a bit more. He worked until a call came through and he had to leave. The first thing he did was call Molly to let her know he wouldn’t be home anytime soon.

_“That’s alright. You’re good at your job. Come home when you’re done, alright?”_

_“Thanks, love. Sorry.”_

_“Don’t be. I’ll keep the bed warm and leave something for you to eat when you get home. You can’t keep starving yourself.”_

_“Sorry. I try.”_

_“You got that from Sherlock. See you when you get home, babe.”_ Molly sounded cheerful and he wondered if she’d gotten a good autopsy. Molly and Sherlock were two of the only people he knew who were fascinated and excited by dead bodies.

_“I’ll try not to give you any more work, hon. Did you get a good one?”_

_“Oh yes, I did! I’ll fill you in on the fun later!”_

_“Alright, alright.”_ He laughed as he got into his car, “Get on with you. I have work to do.”

 _“Bye-uh!”_ She chirped, giggling as she hung up on him.

“Okay. Wow.”

“Was that Molly?” Sally Donovan looked at him as they headed for the scene of what sounded like something right up John and Sherlock’s alley.

“Yup. Only my wife would be that excited about a dead body. Well… _one_ of the only two people I know who would be.”

“Are you going to call them?”

“Only if we need them.” He sighed and hoped they could solve this one without the Baker Street Boys, they needed to take a break for a bit. To his relief, they didn’t need the boys right away. He worked the scene until he handed it over to Forensics, by which time it was almost two in the morning. Groaning, he headed for the hospital to see if things were good with Isabel and Mycroft. The third-shift nurses just nodded when he flashed his badge and he peeked into the room to find Isabel sleeping on the couch, Mycroft unchanged on the bed, and a stillness to the room that was rather comforting. He took the blanket that had either been kicked off or fallen and tucked it around the sleeping soldier, patting her on the shoulder. Of course, trust her to be a light sleeper.

“Nnh. Greg?” She shifted in her sleep, “That you?”

“Just stopping by on my way home, kiddo. How are you holding up?”

“Can’t sleep.” She pulled the blanket tight around her shoulders and looked at him, “Feel a bit useless.”

“You’re _not_ useless. And you won’t do him any good if you’re too tired to see straight.” He checked the machines tracking Mycroft’s vitals, “Want me to see if I can get you something?”

“Not a patient.”

“Don’t have to be.” He smiled and stepped out of the room, flagging down a passing nurse. Explaining things, he asked if they could get something for Isabel. “She just needs a few hours of sleep. Nothing heavy.”

“Oh, no problem! We get that all the time!” The nurse smiled and glanced at the room number before disappearing for a moment. When she came back, she had a cup of water and a sleeping-pill in one hand, and an extra blanket draped over her arm. Greg watched as she roused Isabel and gave her the water and pill and fluffed Isabel’s pillow for her. After making sure everything was proper, the nurse told Isabel to rest and Greg let her out.

“Thank you, so much.”

“Of course, sir. You should get some rest yourself.”

“I’m on my way home right now. Wife’s been missing me, haven’t been home in a few days.” He looked around the quiet hospital and hoped that Mycroft would wake up soon. The nurse just smiled kindly and wished him a good night. He left with a nod to the nurses, and drove home.

Molly had left dinner in the fridge for him, so he popped it in the microwave and poured himself a glass of milk. Greg ate standing up, leaning against the counter. He  _really_ hoped they could put this mess behind them soon, it was starting to wear on him. On  _all_ of them. It had strained relationships and marriages, but they had come out intact. After clearing his plate, he popped a couple of paracetamol and a sleep-aid with what was left of his milk before trudging into the bathroom to brush his teeth. Dropping his clothes by the bed, Greg fell into bed, almost missed his pillow, and was out before Molly realized he was there. Sleep was going to feel  _so_ good. He just hoped that the rest of them would get some relief and some sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Bold/Italics": British Sign Language
> 
> Bold: Text/email
> 
> "Italics": Phone/radio conversation


	3. (Re)Building A (Broken) Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The constant murmur of familiar voices was something that had kept pulling Mycroft back from the brink over and over. He knew that Sherlock had shot him, he knew why, and he had long since forgiven his brother. After all, they had no control of the situation, and if one of them didn’t die, then both of them would. And Sherlock was smart enough to know that he couldn’t force John to live without him again, having done so once already with rather disastrous consequences. Mycroft, on the other hand, saw it as penance for his pride and arrogance, and every stupid mistake he had ever made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mostly from Mycroft's POV, the first third or so is told from Isabel's angle. She has a tought job ahead, but it's not a job she minds doing. Not one bit.  
> **  
> "Bold/Italics": British Sign Language
> 
> Bold: Text/email
> 
> "Italics": Phone/radio conversaton  
> **  
> The events of TFP are mentioned, but not the focus of my story. I'm sorry for skipping over so much familiar canon, but I didn't want to spend time on something that detracted from my story. There's another version of this sitting on my HD where Isabel takes an active role in TFP, but that isn't for this story. I might put it up later as an AU sort of thing, if I feel like it.

* * *

***

Isabel had lost track after the first few hours asleep in Mycroft’s hospital-room, and couldn’t remember how long it had been since she slept properly, _eaten_ , or gone home to check on the flat. She had spoken to her family, extensively with Mycroft’s family, and kept a low profile. She wasn’t sure he knew she was even home. John had explained everything one morning and the very idea that Jim Moriarty had gotten his hands on the Holmes brothers in the absolute worst way possible made her sick. When she realized that Moriarty had gotten to their sister Eurus and used her to get to Sherlock and Mycroft, she felt an indescribable rage. This was her family. And as long as those who threatened them lived, she would not rest.

Somehow, _somehow_ , Moriarty had slipped away again. Eurus had disappeared the day before Isabel got back to London, and evidence indicated that she had gone to ground with Moriarty. And Moriarty, the moron, had gone to ground in London. He apparently felt comfortable enough to stay inside the city, Isabel personally thought he would have been better off getting out while the getting was good. Sticking around was his way of gloating, his way of subtly saying “You can’t get to me. I am untouchable.” But Moriarty hadn’t taken into account that Isabel was still part of the equation and had a skill-set of her own. Let alone a skill-set that she would be happy to employ against him since he clearly hadn’t gotten her “I’m not interested” hints in the past. And after speaking to a few of her connections, she had gotten special permissions and momentarily sat on a rooftop in Chelsea, keeping eyes on the house across the way from her on Halsey Street. She was waiting for the residents to show themselves, and was prepared to wait as long as necessary. As she readjusted, flexing stiff, cold muscles, her phone buzzed. She knew there were only a few people who would bother trying to reach her, and only for very specific reasons, so she pulled her phone and looked at it. A text-alert. It was Sherlock, with news she had been waiting for since she had first arrived in London and realized how much trouble she had missed.

 

**Text to Isabel:**

**He’ll be awake soon. Hurry. – SH**

 

**Text to Sherlock Holmes:**

**Be there as soon as I can. – Isabel**

 

Firing off that text, and cursing Mycroft’s timing, she refocused. Nearly a month of surveillance and planning had gone into this, she had already been on-post for two days waiting for the right moment. She glanced at the sky and noticed that the sky was still very dark, hardly grey at the horizon. Still early. A check of her watch showed that it was only four am, she wouldn’t see movement from the house until seven at this rate. Well, she’d waited this long, she could wait a few more hours. It was almost four hours before she saw movement. The front door opened and Moriarty poked his head out. He looked both ways and then up at the rooftops. He wasn’t going to see her, no matter how hard he looked, she was perfectly positioned and completely hidden from view. She could see _him_ , he could not see her. As he turned to look back into the house, she took a deep breath and pulled the trigger once. The muffled pop echoed in the quiet street, and she took the second shot as soon as Eurus showed herself. It was quiet, there was no fuss, and she broke down her kit before shouldering the drop-bag and leaving her post. Crossing the street, which was rather empty just at the moment, she entered the house. Moving the bodies out of the doorway, she closed the door and locked it. Leaving the key under the mat, she radioed in to let her MI6 bosses know she’d finished the job.

“This is Yankee. Targets eliminated.” She thanked her lucky stars that it was Saturday and most people were still asleep at this time of morning.

 _“Well done, Yankee. Get out of there.”_ Mallory’s voice was soft in her ear, _“Your grandmother would have been proud.”_

“Thank you, sir. My family should be safe from now on.” She looked over her shoulder at the house.

_“Of course. You’ve done your part. Come in for debrief.”_

“Roger that, sir.” Isabel ran two blocks to where she’d left her car. Throwing her kit in the backseat, she turned the ignition, threw the car into gear, and broke the speed-limit at least once between Kensington and Millbank. But it was early enough there wasn’t much traffic anyway. As soon as she got to the JIS headquarters, she pulled off her gloves and shoved them into her pocket with her keys as she ran into the building. It didn’t take long to reach M’s office, and as soon as the door had closed behind her, she rolled her eyes.

“You’d think these people had never seen a sniper right off a job before in their lives. What are we working with, pansies?”

“Not quite. We don’t usually contract out for work like your job, Colonel.” Mallory indicated that she should sit, but she only shook her head. “Very well. I’ll keep this brief. You have business elsewhere.”

“Yes, sir.” She folded her hands behind her back and stood at-attention. The debriefing took almost three hours, which was about standard. There would be reports to be filed, but those could wait just a bit, she had business elsewhere.

“A pleasure working with you, Isabel, as it always is,” M said as he walked her out after the debriefing.

“My pleasure to serve, sir.” She shook hands with him before she left JIS Headquarters and picked up her car. Just out of curiosity, to see if sweeper-teams had been up yet or not, she drove back to Halsey Street and raised an eyebrow when she found part of the street blocked off with police tape. A press release had been prepared ahead of the hit and had been released to the media and to The Met during her debriefing about the incident, so this just made her morning a bit more exciting. Parking in an empty slot, she got out of her car and climbed onto to roof, sitting there to watch the activity. There didn’t seem to be anyone on lead, despite the fact that Sally Donovan was already on-scene. Isabel shrugged and dug into a pocket for the pack of cigarettes she usually stashed there. She wore a green Czech Army parka over her fatigues for the weather and to conceal her precise role in things, and no one had really noticed her. Hiding in plain sight, something she was awfully good at doing. She watched a silver BMW 5 Series 530d Gran Turismo pull up to the tape, marking the arrival of the lead detective.

“Ah, _there_ he is! Now, why did they call Lestrade?” She leaned her elbows on her knees and blew a stream of smoke at the sky as Greg Lestrade passed by her perch, completely missing her as he bee-lined for the scene. Why hadn’t Dimmock or Gregson gotten this one? And how long would it take for that gag-order to come down, how fast it would take for word to get out to the others? A few news vans had parked at the corner, but the police-line kept them at bay. It didn’t look like the media was doing much more than _watching_ , but they weren’t likely to get much of a story anyway. 

Giving Greg a ten-minute head-start, she finished her cigarette. Hopping down from her perch, she crushed the butt under her heel and reached into her pocket for the two .338 Lapua Magnum cartridges she had pocketed earlier that morning. Time to go make friends. She hovered just on this side of the tape, not quite about to barge in uninvited the way Sherlock always did. Sally Donovan was giving orders to a pair of constables, well, giving them a piece of her mind about the way the crowd-control was being run, and the woman happened to spot Isabel. She just grinned and waved.

“Oh, thank god!”

“Afternoon, Detective Inspector.” She chuckled, “Get a good one, did we?”

“Jesus, Angalia, what are _you_ doing around here?”

“Just passing through and saw your lights. What’s up?”

“Got a funky double.” Greg’s former sergeant made a face.

“Really?”

“You’re _more_ than welcome to go take a look.”

“Is it that bad?”

“It’s not that bad, just…it _is_ that weird.”

“Oh, one of _those_ , then.” She ducked the line as Donovan held it up for her.

“Hey, rather have you poking around than Holmes.”

“Oh, lay off it, Donovan. After the hell they’ve been through, I think you can afford my future brother-in-law a little courtesy.”

“Wait. What? You’re not…” Donovan trailed off when Isabel flashed the ring at her, “Oh my god, you _are_!”

“Eleven years, Donovan, not that _that’s_ any business of yours. I think you’ve got bigger things to worry about than my marital status.” She headed for the house, “Sherlock Holmes is a good man. One of the best I’ve ever known.”

Leaving Donovan with that, she bypassed Philip Anderson and the forensics team, and several constables. No one bothered her, they were all rather used to her being on a scene. She found Greg in the entry hall, standing over the bodies of Moriarty and Eurus Holmes.

***

As he worked a crime-scene that didn’t make sense and still made him indescribably _happy_ , though it shouldn’t have, Greg Lestrade ran over everything he knew about the murders. No, this was an assassination, a carefully-planned, deliberate hit. And, if he didn’t have a gag-order hanging over his head from MI6, one that he would _happily_ share with John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. The who was unknown, the why and how were relatively apparent, well, the how was anyway, but there were pieces missing. None of them had slept in a bloody month, so he was rather cranky, no matter if he was currently standing over James Moriarty’s dead body inside a Chelsea safe-house.

As he debated his options, desperate for a cigarette and a stiff drink, Greg scratched the back of his neck and scribbled another page of notes, wondering in the back of his head if any of his contacts were involved. It wouldn’t surprise him, really. At this point, nothing would surprise him. After all, he _was_ standing over the bodies of two of the deadliest people he’d ever had the misfortune of encountering. He only had one question: who had killed Jim Moriarty and Eurus Holmes? Why? He heard footsteps behind him, but the house was full of police personnel, so he didn’t pay much mind.

“.338 Lapua Magnum.” The sound of a voice _that_ close startled him and Greg was ashamed to admit he jumped quite badly. “Fired from an M24A3 SWS with a Harris LM-S bipod, Leupold Mark 4 scope, and OPS INC 12th Model sound suppressor.” He spun around and saw who it was that had managed to sneak up on him.

“Isabel!” He felt a stab of relief, “Christ, I thought you were Sherlock! What are you doing here?”

“Just passing through, saw the lights.” The clever soldier just smiled, hands deep in her pockets, “Thought maybe you folks could use a hand.”

“Uh, maybe. H-how did you know about the…uh, the projectiles? We didn’t find casings or anything.” He turned back to the bodies and crouched, inspecting the small defect in Moriarty’s temple where the bullet had entered his skull, “The bodies were moved, we showed up to find the door locked and a house-key under the mat.”

“So, the killer cleaned up after themselves?”

“Apparently.” Greg sighed, ruffling his hair with one hand, “God, I need a cigarette.” He could smell the smoke in her clothes and grimaced as his mouth watered. She chuckled and tucked something behind his ear.

“That’ll hold you for a mo, Chief.”

“So, you got anything useful on this? Besides knowing everything about the projectiles?”

“What do you want to _know_?”

“Everything.” He knew there was a gag-order, and a press-release from Home Office and JIS Headquarters, “Whatever you can give me.” Isabel raised an eyebrow and stepped over the bodies very carefully, sitting on the stairs to face him. As she sat down, she pulled something from a pocket. After doing a personnel-check to make sure they weren’t being spied on by anyone, and seeing at least three curious bystanders, she shook her head.

“Upstairs.” She whispered. He nodded and followed her upstairs to the third-floor bedroom, closing the door once they were both inside.

“Alright, spill.” He folded his arms across his chest, “What can you give me?”

“Evidence. Answers. Everything.” She held out her hand, and he did likewise so she could hand him whatever it was she had to give him. Two hefty, cylindrical objects dropped into his palm. “.338 Lapua Magnum, 300 grain OTM Hybrid Mission Ready. You already know the rifle-type.” There was a significance to this, and it did not escape him. Every house on the other side of the street had been swept at the roof-tops for any sign of the shooter, but whoever had done the deed had scrammed out and cleaned up after themselves. He tossed the shells, listening to the jingle, and narrowed his eyes at Isabel.

“You own an M24A3 SWS.”

“Yes, I do. You’ve spotted for me in the past at the range.” She turned to the window, “ And on the job.” The pieces slotted together and Greg closed his fingers around the .338 cartridges. He not only had the evidence, he had the shooter! _That’s_ what the gag-order was good for! He was the only person on-scene with a security-clearance high enough to _know_ that information. He nodded and went back downstairs with Isabel. Getting an evidence baggie, he signed and dated the cartridges.

“I stopped down the block on my way over to look for evidence. For all my team knows, I found these on the kerb.” He said to her questioning glance. She chuckled and headed for the door, the hallway now free of obstructions as the Coroner’s Office had arrived to collect the bodies. Greg was happy to send them off to the morgue, and as he stood on the street with Isabel, he caught her checking her phone. 

“Damn.” Her expression was fierce, slightly annoyed. Annoyed snipers were generally not a good thing. He raised an eyebrow.

“Late for something?”

“Yes. And no.” Isabel sighed, “I was actually on my way to Royal London when I stopped by here. Sherlock texted me at…something like 4am, I was still up on post at the time. Then I had to report to JIS Headquarters for debriefing,  _that_ took three hours."

“Go on, with you. You were expected at the hospital _hours_ ago.” He smiled and shook hands as he held the tape for her. “Oh, and Colonel?”

“Yeah?” She turned on her heel.

“Thanks.” He snapped off a salute and a wink. She chuckled, waved, and disappeared. “God bless our snipers.” He muttered, going back to the scene. Sally Donovan gave him a funny look as she caught him saying that, but he just rolled his eyes and ignored her. ‘God bless _my_ snipers, especially.’ He thought to himself. 

***

As soon as she got to the hospital, thirty minutes after leaving Chelsea, Isabel pulled off her gloves and shoved them into her pocket with her keys as she ran into the hospital. Up on 4E, she stopped by the desk, signed the log, and took a badge that she looped around her neck as she ran to Mycroft’s room. No one was outside, but that didn’t mean anything. The windows were shaded, she cracked the door and peeked in. John and Sherlock sat their vigil, Sherlock watching his brother while John snoozed on the couch. She slipped into the room and closed the door behind her.

“Sorry I'm so late. Not awake yet, I take it?”

“No. But soon.” Sherlock looked at her, “Is it done?”

“Yes.” She approached the bed and squeezed his shoulder, “It’s all over.”

“Thank you, Isabel. Thank you for everything.” He covered her hand with his, his voice soft and strained, his hands shaking, “Thank you for this…for…everything.”

“I would do it again if I had to, Sherlock. I’m so sorry I wasn’t here when you needed me.” She leaned down and kissed him, burying her nose in soft dark curls, “I’ve missed you, love.”

“I know.”

“You’ve been sick.” She knew by the way he was behaving. The tremors, the faintness to his voice, the way his skin smelled. “Oh, Sherlock. Babe.”

“I’m sorry.” His shoulders slumped and she rubbed her hand along his back.

“It’s okay, Sherlock. We’ll get through this. I promise.” She murmured, “We always do. Take it easy, Locket.”

“You’re the only person who calls me that.” He leaned his head back and looked up at her, his remarkable eyes dim and glassy. He wasn’t high, just exhausted and sick. She smiled and kissed him on the cheek.

“I know. You’re special to me, Sherlock. Very precious.” Isabel stroked her fingers through unruly, overgrown curls, “You need a haircut, love.”

“I know. John’s been pestering me, too.” She saw the corner of his mouth twitch and he smirked.

“Want me to do it for you?” She tugged on his collar.

“Please?”

“Of course I will. After all this settles down, you come to mine for the day.”

“Thanks.” He staggered to his feet, she caught him until he could hold himself, and looked to the couch, “I guess I should get John.”

“I will. Go wait outside for us.”

“Okay.” He squeezed her hand and slipped out of the room while she went to wake up John, who took one look at her, at her clothes, and knew what she’d been up to. He didn’t say a word, he just hugged her so tight she choked.

“Okay. Easy.” She wheezed, “Christ, I forgot how strong you were.”

“Gelek sipas.”i He whispered hoarsely, digging his fingers into her camo-jacket hard enough she felt it before he let go and followed Sherlock. Isabel followed them out of the hospital, sure that Mycroft was unlikely to wake up anytime in the next ten minutes. After seeing the boys off, she called her parents.

 _“Hello?”_ Her stepfather answered the phone.

“Dad, hi. It’s me.” She chewed on her thumbnail, “Is Mum there?”

 _“Oh! Isabel! Hi, love!”_ Well, at least someone was happy this morning, _“No, she’s out right now. Can I do something to help?”_

“Oh, no.” She scuffed at the pavement and looked over her shoulder at the walls of the hospital, knowing she couldn’t talk long, “It’s just…I was hoping she might be around. She didn’t take Tabitha, did she?”

_“No, I have Tabitha this morning.”_

“Okay.” Isabel pulled off the knit-cap she had worn on her job and ruffled her hair, “Listen, I have to go, I’m visiting a friend at the hospital. Can I stop by later to see her?”

 _“She’s your daughter, you don’t have to ask permission to see her!”_ Jonathon Richardson was rolling his eyes, she could see it without being there.

“Well, I kind of do. At least until I can get back full custody of her.”

_“And we will be happy to let you. She’s a true delight, Isabel, much as you were at her age, if your mother’s right.”_

_“_ And she always is.” Isabel smirked, “Well, Dad, I do have to go. I’ll call when I’m on my way over, alright?”

 _“Sure, hon! Just give me a ring, we’ll be here!”_ He hung up first and she returned to the hospital. When she got back to 4E, she checked with the nurses. Mycroft wasn’t awake yet, but he would be very soon. At least, he hadn’t opened his eyes in the last five minutes. He was stirring, so he was close. Thanking the nurses, she hurried to his room. There had been almost no change, so she sat down and took his hand, fiddling with the rings they had exchanged so long ago. It seemed like lifetimes ago, they had both been so much younger, far more innocent. New to their careers with their whole lives ahead of them. Lifetimes of experiences to be had, some apart and some together. They had seen so many wonderful places together, sent pictures of places they visited separately. She remembered moments like this one, spent at a hospital bedside-watch, desperate for the other to wake up again, another day ahead to change the world. She had been in his place as many times as he had and had always hated that helpless feeling on both sides.

Desperate for some bit of normalcy, she brushed steady fingers through Mycroft’s hair the way she knew he liked, holding his hand and resting her head on the blankets over his chest, closing her eyes to listen to his heartbeat. She started humming the tune of a favourite song of theirs, and sang it to him like she would on nights they were together and he couldn’t sleep.

***

The constant murmur of familiar voices was something that had kept pulling Mycroft back from the brink over and over. He knew that Sherlock had shot him, he knew why, and he had long since forgiven his brother. After all, they had no control of the situation, and if one of them didn’t die, then both of them would. And Sherlock was smart enough to know that he couldn’t force John to live without him again, having done so once already with rather disastrous consequences. Mycroft, on the other hand, saw it as penance for his pride and arrogance, and every stupid mistake he had ever made. In the heat of the moment, he’d spared a thought for Isabel Angalia, and what she would have said to him in that situation. She probably would have called him a fucking moron, a right bloody idiot, meaning every single hurtful word he needed to hear but meaning it with the warm love she had for him. No matter how outrageous he was, or how moody, she never stopped loving him, she let him rant, rave, and break dishes, he’d spent two hours on a phone-call once and she hadn’t said more than two or three words the entire time. And every time he felt sorry for himself or felt lonely, which was more often than he’d like, she always said the same five words: “I love you, Mycroft Holmes.” She said those words whenever she had the chance, but it always meant the most when he was in a slump.

 

As the years had gone by, he had often wondered what in the world he had done right to deserve someone so unique. Fourteen years with someone who had stuck by him through everything, who had continued to return to him despite everything that had driven countless others away, who seemed to understand him better than his brother, better than Lestrade, who had been his best friend for so many years and seen him through incidents both equal to and far worse than this. Anyone lesser would have fled well before the Sherrinford and Musgrove Hall incidents, but she stayed.

He loved Isabel, which was really something for a man who proclaimed to misunderstand affection or any emotion at all. And yet, despite this, no one had ever managed to use Isabel as a weapon against him, as a weakness. Or use _him_ against Isabel, such as it was. He took comfort in that knowledge. There had been a short-lived scare involving Isabel’s daughter, Tabitha, a while ago, but that had resolved itself very quickly. It was hard to kidnap the daughter of a sniper and think you’d get away with it when the girl’s father was a government agent who practically ran the bloody country, never mind the resources her _mother_ had available. Not…that Mycroft was interested in running much of anything at the moment. Not the country, for certain. It could be quite a while before he returned to work, if he ever got around to it.

But Mycroft was pulled from his own dreary musings of what seemed a bleak future by the sound of someone singing. It was a woman’s voice, very soft and a little shaky, but still quite beautiful. He recognized the language as Scots Gaelic, one of ten languages he spoke with native fluency, and the song as well. There was only one person he knew of in his pathetically small circle of friends who not only knew the words to “Down To The River To Pray”, but knew them well enough to sing them in fluent Gaelic. He was aware of someone touching him, and he _hated_ being touched. But it was a familiar touch, careful and constant and soothing. And a weight on his chest kept him still. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was certainly present. 

 

::“O mothers, let's go down/Let's go down; don't you want to go down?/Come on, mothers, let's go down  
Down in the river to pray/

As I went down in the river to pray/ Studying about that good old way/And who shall wear the starry crown/Good Lord, show me the way!/

O sinners, let's go down/Let's go down, come on down/O sinners, let's go down/Down in the river to pray/

As I went down in the river to pray/Studying about that good old way/And who shall wear the robe and crown/Good Lord, show me the way!”::

 

Fighting his eyes open, with difficulty due to how long he’d been out, Mycroft blinked and fought to focus. Where was she? She was definitely in the room, but… _where_? The weight on his chest disappeared, but the touch did not.

“Mycroft! Oh, thank Christ!” The hand on his squeezed, “You’ve been in and out of it for almost a month and a half now! I’m so happy you’re awake!”

“Isabel?” He had almost no voice, her name was a squeaky, hoarse whisper. But it was Isabel, she was alive. Not that she had any reason _not_ to be alive, but…it was the principal of the thing. She smiled, but it was a smile he knew far too well. She was glad to see him, but there was something off. She reached over and picked up a cup from a nearby table-stand, offering him a drink. The water was slightly warm but cool enough it soothed a very sore throat. His chest ached a bit, from the wound no doubt, and he coughed. She rubbed his shoulder and the side of his neck, one hand pressed to his chest and her cheek to his forehead until the fit passed. He drank again and settled back against the pillow, studying her.

“I wasn’t imagining it.”

“No. Not once.” She rubbed her thumb along his cheek as she sat back to look at him, “Not. Once.”

“Have you been here all this time?”

“Not _all_ of it, but definitely longer than I wanted to be.” She smirked, and leaned in to touch foreheads and noses with him, “I missed you so much.”

“How could you _miss_ me, I’ve been right here.” Mycroft couldn’t help himself. He was a bit giddy, really. He blamed the drugs and the fact that Isabel was _right there_. Real, warm, and apparently not very amused.

“Don’t be a prat, Mycroft. You know what I meant.”

“I’m sorry. Can you blame me?”

“No. I really can’t.” Isabel took his hand in both of hers, his left hand, and pressed her lips to the back of it. “I love you, Mycroft Holmes.”

“Lucky me.” He shook his head and closed his eyes. It occurred to him that he was missing something. His ring. Where…? He’d had it when they’d been pulled from Sherrinford, but…where was it?

“Before you start panicking that someone stole your ring, it’s right here.” Isabel squeezed his hand, and he felt something hard and smooth. Oh. She’d moved it! Hers was on her left hand, just as his was!

“Well, _that_ took you long enough!”

“Yeah, yeah, quiet, you.” She rolled her eyes, “I’m seriously dreading the reaction we’ll get from Mummy when she finds out.”

“Oh, God.”

“But, that can wait.” She huffed, “I am not letting your mother anywhere near our wedding plans until you’re well again.” He chuckled and tugged on her hand.

“Come here, please.”

“Let’s try to not set off your heart-rate alarms, shall we?” She grinned, a familiar, wicked smile he had missed and would never tire of. Tripping the alarms wouldn’t be that hard right now, but he was willing to risk it for a proper kiss. It felt glorious. She was warm, present, and persistent. Sure enough, they set off the alarms, but by the time the nurses ran in, Isabel was sitting a proper distance from the bed.

“False alarm?” a motherly nurse who’s name-tag read Angie looked at the monitor, which was already returning to stable, and then at Isabel. As if she knew that Mycroft would lie anyway.

“False alarm. Sorry about that, Angie.”

“God, you two.” Angie rolled her eyes and smirked after shooing out the younger nurse, “Are you feeling more yourself, Mr Holmes?”

“Yes, I am, Angie. Thank you very much.”

“Excellent. I have to go inform Doctor Francisco that you’re awake, can I get you anything in the meantime?”

“Another blanket, and…tea?” He suspected the second request would be denied on some silly rule or another, but it was worth it to ask.

“Of course, Mr Holmes. I’ll see what I can do.” Angie just smiled at them and left with a jaunty little wave.

“She is not an idiot.”

“Nope.” Isabel moved her chair up close again and did something that might get them into trouble but he didn’t think she particularly cared.

“That’s bad manners, ma’am.” He scolded fondly as she propped her feet against the bed, “Rather bad manners, really.”

“Eh.” She shrugged. “They’ll have to change the bedding anyway.”

“Improper discipline.”

“Like you really care?” She challenged. He chuckled, which cascaded into a giggle. It hurt to laugh, and he had to stop. Isabel helped him drink some more water, and they were chatting when Angie came back with two extra blankets and, glory of glories, two paper cups of hot tea.

“There you are, dears! Doctor Francisco is doing her rounds, but she will be in to see you in about half an hour.”

“Thank you, Angie!” Isabel smiled brightly at the friendly, helpful nurse, who only gave her a scolding tap against the sole of her left boot with her biro.

“Feet on the furniture is bad manners, Colonel.”

“Yes, it is.” Isabel wiggled her eyebrows as she sipped at her hot tea, “Thank you, Angie, you’re a dear.”

“Just doing my job, dear.” Angie smiled and left after making sure they didn’t need anything else. As the door closed, Mycroft looked sideways at Isabel.

“What?”

“Colonel?”

“Oh.” She almost choked on her tea, and blushed, “Yeah. I guess somebody figured that nineteen years was long enough and I’d earned it.” She smiled, “Lieutenant-Colonel. Another year and I’ll be able to retire. Well…”

“Not even a year.” He had already done the math in his head, “Six months.”

“The Passing Out ceremony will probably happen in the United States. I’d like you to be there.”

“Maybe it’s time to slow down a bit,” Mycroft spoke mostly to his tea, but he knew that Isabel heard him. It was true, though. When Doctor Francisco arrived to see them, all Mycroft really wanted was to go home. Thankfully, Doctor Francisco, a middle-aged woman of Italian descent with family still in Vicenza and a pleasant maternal personality, seemed to understand that he’d had quite enough of hospitals for a while and filed his discharge papers.

 

An hour later, Mycroft was leaving the hospital and Isabel was driving him home. He had a collection of prescriptions to fill out and take, but he was willing to leave that business to Isabel and John to handle. He was rather good at delegation, wasn’t he? A thought occurred to him and he groaned.

“What’s the long face for?” Isabel asked as they drove through mid-morning traffic.

“Oh. Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“No, it’s…just. It is going to be very difficult to hold Tabitha and play with her.”

“Did anyone tell her what happened? Does she have _any_ idea?”

“I doubt it. Sherlock _might_ have said something, but I very sincerely doubt your family has any idea what happened.” He slid down in the seat, “I’m _so_ sorry, Isabel.”

“Don’t be sorry, you’re alive. That is far more than can be said for the people who started this fight.” She looked over at him, her eyes focused a bit darker than typical. The significance of those words escaped him just at that moment, and that bothered him. She flipped through radio channels looking for something decent, but there didn’t seem to be anything that appealed to either of them. So she switched to her phone’s MP3 player and scrolled to a certain playlist. He listened for a bit and then smirked.

“This is our music.”

“Mhm.” She looked at him as she took a corner at speed, “You, me, Sherlock, and I’ve got John and Greg on here somewhere.”

“You do?”

“Yes, sir.” She grinned, “Did you know that John plays the piano and sings?”

“I did, but he’s very private about it.”

“Sherlock, of course, mastered the violin years ago.” Her smile softened a bit, “But he hasn’t played much lately.”

“No. None of us have.” He looked out the window, “You’ve been out of the country.”

“So have _you_.”

“I suppose I have. We all have.” It felt so strange, he felt like he was in a waking dream. When the car came to a stop, she tapped him on the wrist.

“Hey. We’re home.” She smiled and got out, coming around to open his door, “I called my step-dad before we left the hospital, he’ll be over soon.” Mycroft looked up to see where “home” was and turned to Isabel.

“Sneaky girl.”

“Mine is just as secure as yours.” She offered her arm and they went into to the Prince’s Mews house she had purchased three years ago. He had the foresight to close the garage, and wondered if he would feel completely safe ever again. It wasn’t just his own safety at risk anymore. Moriarty had gotten far too close this time.

“Mycroft?”

“Hmm?” He’d zoned out on her, and he knew she hated when he did that. They were sitting on the couch in the reception lounge on the second floor. He turned and looked at Isabel. He looked at her, really looked, and took note of the style and colour of her clothes, the way she held herself. She had done something before coming see him in the hospital.

“Black tactical fatigues and heavy boots, no bullet-proof vest, you’re wearing it under your jacket, knit-cap, strict hairstyle. Stiff shoulders, you were on a flat surface for a long time. One, maybe two days in the open.” He rubbed her knuckles, she still wore tactical gloves. “This wasn’t just an observation mission. What happened this morning?”

“No, it wasn’t.” She sighed, shaking her head, “It wasn’t. I had targets, Mycroft, two of them.”

“Local targets? Must have been.” He closed his eyes, “A job for MI6.”

“Not _for_ them, but I had their backing.”

“Personal, then.”

“You could say that.” There was a hatred, a bitterness to her voice, “And I did _not_ miss.”

“You never do.” She was one of the best snipers he knew, dedicated and loyal, and exquisitely deadly. But her loyalties were never for sale to any buyer, as a few interested parties had learned the hard way. James Moriarty had been _very_ interested, but she’d sent a rather devastatingly clear message about six months after it came to light that he was still alive when he came sniffing around. Mycroft personally thought Moriarty should have considered himself bloody fortunate Isabel hadn’t pulled the trigger twice that day.

He remembered the last thing he had said to Moriarty before he’d been shot: “If Isabel Angalia ever finds out what you’ve done, and she _will_ , you are a dead man walking to your own grave.” He had said with more calm than he’d felt, “She missed once, I doubt she would be willing to miss a second time.” Of course, Moriarty had laughed saying that by the time Isabel found out anything useful, it would be far too late, he would be far away, and Mycroft…would probably be dead. It hadn’t quite turned out that way, and he still didn’t know where that bastard had gone to ground.

“If only I knew our world was safe.” He sighed, shaking his head. Making a sound in her throat, Isabel placed two .338 cartridges in his hand. He turned them over, studying them, reading the manufacturing marks on the bottom.

“.338 Lapua Magnum.” He frowned, squinting at the barrel-striations on the shell, “These were fired from an M24A3 SWS with a Harris LM-S bipod, Leupold Mark 4 scope, and OPS INC 12th Model sound suppressor.”

“How many snipers do you know who owns one of those guns?” Isabel murmured, “They retired it from service in 2014.” He looked at them again, knowing there was a significance to them that he was missing.

“What happened this morning?”

“If you were worried about Moriarty, don’t be.”

“Was I?”

“You were.” She shook her head, “It’s kind of hard to resurrect yourself from a direct hit from a .338 Lapua Magnum.”

“Isabel. What on earth did you _do_?”

“I did not miss.” Isabel took his hand in hers, “You said I wouldn’t miss a second time, and I didn’t. Poncy bastard never saw it coming.”

“Oh, Isabel.” He tightened his fingers around hers, “You didn’t.”

“I did. Moran was already dead, but you knew that. Now Moriarty’s dead. And we all know what happened to Magnussen.” Ah, there was a smirk. “Wonder why Moriarty didn’t get a hint _that_ day.”

“Isabel!”

“Oh, please, you know I’m not sorry!” She rolled her eyes. And really, he didn’t blame her.

“So, you toppled the king.”

“It was so simple, a matter of patience.” Isabel clasped her gloved hands in her lap. “I’d rather run out of that when he showed his face. It’s a good thing today’s Saturday.”

“Oh?”

“No traffic, and no witnesses.” She smirked, “Perfect circumstances for a sniper to do their job right.” Mycroft chuckled and felt a heaviness in his chest let go.

“I’m…”

“Don’t say you’re sorry, I know what happened in that place.” She lowered her head in a fashion he had not seen in many many months. “I know what happened to you, what happened to Sherlock, what happened to _John_ , for Christ’s sakes.”

There were only a few moments in the recent past that he could honestly say had terrified him, and the stand-off between Sherlock, John, Charles Agustus Magnussen, and a small army of police, MI5, and MI6 had certainly been one. But Mycroft had brought Isabel along in the chopper, and as soon as things turned south, she went into action. She had a clear shot, had taken that clear shot, and ended one of the most ruthless men any of them had ever faced. It had been a perfect hit, he couldn’t have hoped for better. He had specifically requested her, pulled her from her post in Germany, and sent her right back once it was over. No one had to know the identity of his sniper, and no one, to this day, had a clue. She had worn a mask and night-vision goggles during the stand-off, the same black tactical fatigues she wore today, gloves, boots, and helmet to finish the uniform.

Mycroft was pulled from his head by a nudge against his calf. It was Isabel, still watching him.

“You got lost in your head again.”

“I’m sorry.” He sighed, “I’m _so_ sorry.”

“Stop apologizing, Mycroft, Jesus Christ. Nothing that happened was within your control. I just took care of the threat to our family, you have _nothing_ to worry about anymore.”

“You gave me two .338 shells.” He watched her face, “You said you had two targets.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Isabel?” Mycroft looked at the cartridges, “What happened to my sister?”

“You know by now that she escaped Sherrinford again. That was the day before I got back to London and came to you in the hospital. You never knew I was there, but I visited you every day except when I was planning this morning’s job.” She had a distance to her gaze that bothered him, but it was only to be expected, “John explained the whole mess to me and as soon as I realized that Eurus had disappeared, I tracked her down to Moriarty. They would have been better off going to ground outside of London.”

“You found them.”

“It took me a few days, but I found them alright. A _month_ of planning went into this job and I spent _two_ fucking days sitting on that roof-top, Mycroft, just to keep my family safe.” Isabel shook her head, “You may not be in favour with a lot of people these days, but I am. Mallory gave me everything I needed to pull this hit off safely and I had the bodies sent to Saint Bart’s. If you want to identify them, since I get the feeling you don’t trust me or believe me, I’ll drive you over.”

“I never said I didn’t trust you.”

“Mycroft.” She put a hand on his shoulder, “Your sister was beyond help. Her game would have continued until you were dead. You have a family that loves you. I will not stand by when I can do something.”

“Thank you, Isabel.” He clutched the .338s in his hand, feeling the metal dig into his palm, “I was so wrong. About so many things.”

“It’s alright, you’re only human.” She knelt between his knees and took his hands in hers, “I love you, Mycroft Holmes. No matter what idiot mess we get into.” She wore a soft, benevolent smile that he usually saw in the bedroom, after a good night’s sleep.

“How are you real?”

“You can thank my parents for conceiving me and my mother for giving birth to me.” She smiled, “Besides, you know it’s true.” And it was.

“It’s been fourteen years.”

“Ten of them committed.” Isabel took his hand again, threading their fingers together in a certain way she had, “Fourteen years together, a lifetime’s worth of stories, and a daughter to share.”

“She reminds me of you.” Mycroft couldn’t help the smile, “I’m told she takes after her mother.”

“And I’ve been told the same about her father.”

“Touche.” He conceded the point. Tabitha was precisely half of them both and took after each parent in different ways. She was already showing signs of typical Holmesian intelligence, which he was not ashamed to admit made him _very_ proud.

 

Three hours later, after a decent nap and a dose of pain meds, Mycroft found himself following Isabel into the morgue at Saint Bart’s. John and Sherlock were there to meet them, and when Molly Hooper asked if they wanted to identify the bodies, he nodded. Isabel had identified them that morning during her hit, this was for his sake.

“Are you sure, Mr Holmes?”

“Please, Doctor Hooper.”

“Yes, sir.” The kind pathologist unzipped the body-bags, “After you.” The first body-bag held the body of James Moriarty, he could see evidence of where Isabel’s bullet had made its target.

“That’s him.”

“Told you I wouldn’t miss.” Isabel murmured from her place beside him, “Promised him as much, didn’t I?”

“Shame he never took you seriously.” Mycroft looked at her, “Thank you, Isabel.” When he identified his sister, he felt nothing but rage. Eurus had nearly ruined them all, and it was entirely his fault.

“Don’t go there.” Isabel hissed, “Don’t you dare go there. You did the wrong thing for the right reasons.”

“I shouldn’t have.”

“Mycroft?” John stood with Sherlock on the other side of the shelf, “She was plotting your _death_ when she was a child. She carried that into adulthood and was about to carry out those plans. Isabel stopped her. Do not blame yourself.”

“She burned down Musgrove Hall, Mycroft, she could have killed us all,” Sherlock said quietly. “She tried to kill us. But she couldn’t.”

“What do you want me to do, Mr Holmes?” Hooper asked politely.

“Destroy Moriarty’s body, I don’t care how you do it.”

“And your sister?”

“My parents have shown no interest in seeing her again.”

“I’ll cremate them both and you can do as you please with the remains, if you’d like them back.”

“No.”

“Very well. Thank you for coming, Mr Holmes, I know this was hard for you.” Hooper smiled faintly and Mycroft nodded. He wanted to leave, he’d done what he came for and had no reason to stay any longer. Shaking hands with the pathologist, Mycroft left the morgue with what remained of his family. It was time to go home, pick up the pieces, regroup, and figure out what the future held. And be grateful that he still _had_ a future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i   
> Kurdish
> 
> Gleke sipas/Thank you so much  
> **
> 
> UPDATE: I cut this off at three chapters because it's been sitting for so long untouched. If I enter this particular venue of my AU-verse again, I'll add to it in a series. I had grand plans for Isabel and Mycroft, but those fell by the wayside and remain unwritten. The ideas are there, the inspiration is lacking.


End file.
